L’Assommoir ended, and to rid himself of the grey tragedy, Anthony looked up and through the windows toward the bright night which lay over the gardens and terraces outside, for a full moon silvered all with a flood of light.  It was a waiting time, and into it the old-fashioned Dutch clock in the corner sent its voice with a monotonous, softly clanging toll of seconds, until Anthony forgot the moonlight over the outside terraces to watch the gradual sway of the pendulum.  A minute, spent in this manner, was equal to an hour of ordinary time.  Fascinated by the sway of the pendulum he became conscious of the passage of existence like a river broad and wide and shining which flowed on into an eternity of chance and left him stationary on the banks.

The voice which sounded at length was as dim and visionary as a part of his waking dream.  It was like one of those imagined calls from the world of action to him who stood there, watching reality run past and never stirring himself to take advantage of the thousand opportunities for action.  He would have discarded it for a part of his dream, had not he seen John Woodbury raise his head sharply, heard the paper fall with a dry crackling to the floor, and watched the square jaw of his father jut out in that familiar way which meant danger.

Once more, and this time it was unmistakably clear:  “John Bard,—­John Bard, come out to me!”

The big, grey man rose with widely staring eyes as if the name belonged to him, and strode with a thumping step into the secret room.  Hardly had the clang of the closing door died out when he reappeared, fumbling at his throat.  Straight to Anthony he came and extended a key from which dangled a piece of thin silver chain.  It was the key to the secret room.

He took it in both hands, like a young knight receiving the pommel of his sword from him who has just given the accolade, and stared down at it until the creaking of the opened French windows startled him to his feet.

“Wait!” he called, “I will go also!”

The big man at the open window turned.

“You will sit where you are now,” said his harsh voice, “but if I don’t return you have the key to the room.”

His burly shoulders disappeared down the steps toward the garden, and Anthony slipped back into his chair; yet for the first time in his life he was dreaming of disobeying the command of John Woodbury.  Woodbury—­yet the big man had risen automatically in answer to the name of Bard.  John Bard!  It struck on his consciousness like two hammer blows wrecking some fragile fabric; it jarred home like the timed blow of a pugilist.  Woodbury?  There might be a thousand men capable of that name, but there could only be one John Bard, and that was he who had disappeared down the steps leading to the garden.  Anthony swerved in his chair and fastened his eyes on the Dutch clock.  He gave himself five minutes before he should move.