And now and then, when an old
man dies, they bring him back to put him with his fathers. This
morning, as I came along, they were digging the grave for old
Adam Duncan, and the bell tolls for him. So you see," and he
looked Zindorf in the face, "a belief in signs is justified."
Again the big man made his gesture as of one putting something of
no importance out of the way.
"Believe what you like," he said, "I am not concerned with
signs."
"Why, yes, Zindorf," replied my father, "of all men you are the
very one most concerned about them. You must be careful not to
use the wrong ones."
It was a moment of peculiar tension.
The room was flooded with sun. The tiny creatures of the air
droned outside. Everywhere was peace and the gentle benevolence
of peace. But within this room, split off from the great chamber
of a church, events covert and sinister seemed preparing to
assemble.
My father, big and dominant, was behind the table, his great
shoulders blotting out the window;
Mr. Lucian Morrow sat doubled in a chair, and Zindorf stood with
the closed door behind him.
"You see, Zindorf," he said, "each master has his set of signs.
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