"Very good--your coat over your arm--so! Just ruffle your hair a bit, sir--now you should do very nicely." At the door: "Go first, Peters--first, man, and hurry, but watch those big feet of yours. If you make a noise on the stairs I'm done with you." The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not so safe was the chuckling of Peters for, though he fought against the threatening explosion, it rumbled like the roll of approaching thunder. In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door. "Good-evening, Mr. Anthony," said Peters loudly, too loudly. "Evening, Peters. Where's father?" "In the library, sir. Shall I take your coat?" "I'll carry it up to my room when I go. That's all." He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his father would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was not even reading. He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he now removed slowly from his teeth. "Hello, Anthony." "Good-evening, sir." He rose to shake hands with his son: they might have been friends meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be formal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew that the keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot. "Take this chair." "Why, sir, wouldn't dream of disturbing you." "Not a bit. I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me." John Woodbury rose and gestured his son to the chair he had been occupying. Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first and thinks afterward, seated himself as directed. "Mighty comfortable, sir." The big man stood with his hands clasped behind him, peering down under shaggy, iron-grey brows. "I thought it would be. I designed it myself for you and I had a pretty bad time getting it made." He stepped to one side. "Hits you pretty well under the knees, doesn't it? Yes, it's deeper than most." "A perfect fit, father, and mighty thoughtful of you." "H-m," rumbled John Woodbury, and looked about like one who has forgotten something. "What about a glass of Scotch?" "Nothing, thank you--I--in fact I'm not very strong for the stuff." The rough brows rose a trifle and fell. "No? But isn't it usual? Better have a go." Once more there was that slight touch of hesitancy, as if the son were not quite sure of the father and wished to make every concession. "Certainly, if it'll make you easier." There was an instant softening of the hard lines of the elder Woodbury's face, as though some favour of import had been done him. He touched a bell-cord and lowered himself with a little grunt of relaxation into a chair. The chair was stoutly built, but it groaned a little under the weight of the mighty frame it received. He leaned back and in his face was a light which came not altogether from the comfortable glow of the fire. And when the servant appeared the big man ordered: "Scotch and seltzer and one glass with a pitcher of ice."