The Sleuth of St. James Street [38]
toward the distant wood. "Zindorf," he said, "do you mark the sign?" The man listened. "What sign?" he said. "The sign of death!" replied my father. The man made a deprecating gesture with his hands, "I do not believe in signs," he said. My father replied like one corrected by a memory. "Why, yes," he said, "that is true. I should have remembered that. You do not believe in signs, Zindorf, since you abandoned the sign of the cross, and set these coarse patches on your knees to remind you not to bend them in the sign of submission to the King of Kings." The intent in the mended clothing was the economy of avarice, but my father turned it to his use. The man's face clouded with anger. "What I believe," he said, "is neither the concern of you nor another." He paused with an oath. "Whatever you may believe, Zindorf," replied my father, "the sound of that bell is unquestionably a sign of death." He pointed toward the distant wood. "In the edge of the forest yonder is the ancient church that the people built to replace the burned one here. It has been long abandoned, but in its graveyard lie a few old families. 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. Most of us have learned the signs of one master only. But you have learned the signs of both. And you must be careful not to bring the signs of your first master into the service of your last one." The big man did not move, he stood with the door closed behind him, and studied my father's face like one who feels the presence of a danger that he cannot locate. "What do you mean?" he said. "I mean," replied my father, "I mean, Zindorf, that each master has a certain intent in events, and this intent is indicated by his set of signs. Now the great purpose of these two masters, we believe, in all the moving of events, is directly opposed. Thus, when we use a sign of one of these masters, we express by the symbol of it the hope that events will take the direction of his established purpose. "Don't you see then . . . don't you see, that we dare not use the signs of one in the service of the other?" "Pendleton," said the man, "I do not understand you." He spoke slowly and precisely, like one moving with an excess of care. My father went on, his voice strong and level, his eyes on Zindorf. "The thing is a great mystery," he said. "It is not clear to any of us in its causes or its relations. But old legends and old beliefs, running down from the very morning of the world, tell us - warn us, Zindorf - that the signs of each of these masters are abhorrent to the other. Neither will tolerate the use of his adversary's sign. Moreover, Zindorf, there is a double peril in it." And his voice rose. "There is the peril that the new master will abandon the blunderer for the insult, and there is the peril that the old one will destroy him for the sacrilege!" At this moment the door behind Zindorf opened, and the young girl entered. She was excited and her eyes danced. "Oh!" she said, "people are coming