complete, there was something else to do. He gave the address of the
house on Washington Square. The mansion, as the limousine drew up before
it, looked dark, almost deserted. He mounted the steps slowly, his mind
crowded with memories--with what burning hatred in his heart he had come
to face the owner of that house, to disarm Victor Mahr of his revengeful
power. With what primeval elation he had stood upon that topmost step
and drawn long breaths of satisfaction at the thought of the encounter
in which, with his own hands he had laid his enemy low! Its thrill came
to him anew. Again he recalled the hurried purposeful visit that had
ended with his finding the enemy passed forever beyond his reach.
Vividly he saw before him the silent room--soft lighted, remotely quiet;
the waxen hand of a man contrasting with the scarlet damask of a huge
winged chair, that hid the face of its owner. And more distinct than all
else, staring from the surrounding darkness of the walls, the glorious,
palpitating semblance of a warrior of long ago. The strangely living
lips, the dusky hollows where thoughtful eyes gleamed darkling. The
glint of armor half covered by velvet and fur. A gloved hand that seemed
to caress a sword hilt, that caught one crashing ruby light upon its
pommel--the matchless Heim Vandyke--the silent, attentive watcher who
had seen his sacking of the dead; who seemed, with those deep eyes of
understanding, to realize and know it all--the futile clash of human
wills, the little day of love and hate, the infinite mercy, and the
inexorable law.

Gard paused, his hand upon the bell. Now at last he could enter this
house, and wish it peace. His errand, even the all-comprehending eyes of
the dead and gone warrior could look upon without their half-cynic
sadness.

As he entered the great silent hall, where the footfalls of the servant