The big man stirred and the chair groaned beneath him.

"Because it tortures me to speak of her, Anthony," said the husky voice.
"Tortures me, lad!"

"I let the locked room go," said Anthony firmly, "but my mother--she is
different. Why, sir, I don't even know how she looked! Dad, it's my
right!"

"Is it? By God, you have a right to know exactly what I choose to tell
you--no more!"

He rose, strode across the room with ponderous steps, drew aside the
curtains which covered the view of the garden below, and stared for a
time into the night. When he turned he found that Anthony had risen--a
slender, erect figure. His voice was as quiet as his anger, but an
inward quality made it as thrilling as the hoarse boom of his father.

"On that point I stick. I must know something about her."

"Must?"

"In spite of your anger. That locked room is yours; this house and
everything in it is yours; but my mother--she was as much mine as yours,
and I'll hear more about her--who she was, what she looked like, where
she lived--"

The sharply indrawn breath of John Woodbury cut him short.