It was the abrupt and unlooked-for justification of his own secret, treasured hope; the tacit acknowledgment of kinship and obligation made now by Andrew Henderson after seven unfruitful years.

A mist rose before his sight and his mind swam.

What was the mad creed of a dying man--of a dozen dying men--when the reward of his own long probation awaited him?
But the old man was set to his purpose.

With shaking fingers he fumbled with two small objects that depended from the chain about his neck.

And as he held them up, John saw by the glow of the lamp that one was a copy in miniature of the metal symbol that decorated the little chapel, the other a long, thin key.
As Henderson disentangled and raised these objects to the light, his eyes turned again upon his nephew.
"John," he said, tremulously, "I want you to swear to me by the Sign that you will not touch my body--nor anything on my body--till the Arch-Councillor comes! Swear, as you hope for your own happiness!" A wild illumination spread over his face; the unpleasant fanatical light showed again in his eyes.
For a moment John looked at him; then stirred by his own emotions, by the new pang of self-reproach and gratitude towards this half-crazy man so near his end, he went forward and touched the small octagonal symbol that gleamed in the light.
"I swear--by the Sign!" he said, in a low, level voice.