A minute, spent in this manner, was equal to an hour of ordinary time.

Fascinated by the sway of the pendulum he became conscious of the passage of existence like a river broad and wide and shining which flowed on into an eternity of chance and left him stationary on the banks.
The voice which sounded at length was as dim and visionary as a part of his waking dream.

It was like one of those imagined calls from the world of action to him who stood there, watching reality run past and never stirring himself to take advantage of the thousand opportunities for action.

He would have discarded it for a part of his dream, had not he seen John Woodbury raise his head sharply, heard the paper fall with a dry crackling to the floor, and watched the square jaw of his father jut out in that familiar way which meant danger.
Once more, and this time it was unmistakably clear: "John Bard,--John Bard, come out to me!" The big, grey man rose with widely staring eyes as if the name belonged to him, and strode with a thumping step into the secret room.

Hardly had the clang of the closing door died out when he reappeared, fumbling at his throat.