A strong purpose is to a man what an engine is to a ship. Suppose a hull
lies in the water, stanchly built, graceful in lines of strength and
speed, nosing at the wharf or tugging back on the mooring line, it may
be a fine piece of building but it cannot be much admired. But place an
engine in the hull and add to those fine lines the purr of a
motor--there is a sight which brings a smile to the lips and a light in
the eyes. Anthony had been like the unengined hulk, moored in gentle
waters with never the hope of a voyage to rough seas. Now that his
purpose came to him he was calmly eager, almost gay in the prospect of
the battle.

On the highest hill of Anson Place in a tomb overlooking the waters of
the sound, they lowered the body of John Bard.

Afterward Anthony Bard went back to the secret room of his father. The
old name of Anthony Woodbury he had abandoned; in fact, he felt almost
like dating a new existence from the moment when he heard the voice
calling out of the garden: "John Bard, come out to me!" If life was a
thread, that voice was the shears which snapped the trend of his life
and gave him a new beginning. As Anthony Bard he opened once more the
door of the chamber.

He had replaced the revolver of John Bard in the box with the oiled
silk. Now he took it out again and shoved it into his back trouser
pocket, and then stood a long moment under the picture of the woman he
knew was his mother. As he stared he felt himself receding to youth, to
boyhood, to child days, finally to a helpless infant which that woman,
perhaps, had held and loved. In those dark, brooding eyes he strove to
read the mystery of his existence, but they remained as unriddled as the
free stars of heaven.