“That is all new to me,” Tregarvon commented. “I didn’t know Richardia had a brother. She has never spoken of him to me.” “Wilmerding says nobody ever speaks of him,” Carfax went on. “Parker was vindictive, and pushed the assault case. A grand jury found a true bill against young Birrell, and a warrant was issued for his arrest. He couldn’t be found; has never been found. His son’s disappearance, and the struggle to keep faith with his friends, made the judge what he is now, a proud, broken-spirited old hermit who is carrying the heaviest burden a father can bear--the disgrace of a son.” “Disgrace?” echoed Tregarvon. “It’s hardly that, is it? Haven’t we been taught that it is a part of the Southern code that a son should shoot his father’s betrayer?” “Oh, yes; that part of it was all right. The disgrace was in showing the white feather by running away; in not staying to face the consequences. As a matter of fact, I don’t suppose there would have been any consequences. Any jury that could have been impanelled in this vicinity at that particular time would have acquitted the boy. The cowardly streak is what broke the judge’s heart.” “This story of the boy opens up a bit of new ground,” said Tregarvon musingly. “I wonder if Richardia doesn’t know where he is? She has given me the impression, more than once, that she has a deep-buried trouble of some sort--a trouble that she never shares with anybody. Haven’t you had the same notion?” Carfax shook his head. “She doesn’t need to go that far afield to find her troubles. The wrecked family fortunes, and a broken old man to shield and comfort and care for on a music teacher’s wages, are enough to fill all the requirements, I should imagine.” “Surely. But as to the money hardship ... you’ll be able to change all that, Poictiers.” Carfax rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and slowly refilled it. “You have come to see things in their right light, at last, have you?” he inquired at the end of the little interval of silence. “Partly. There is only one light in which they can be seen. I had no shadow of right to fall in love with Richardia.” “Wait a minute,” said Carfax in his gentlest tone. “Are you sure it was real? You know, you have had so many of these--er--these little erotic explosions in the past----” “I know,” was the humble admission. “But this was different. You may say that the difference lay in the fact that it was forbidden, and point me to the moral twist--as old as the race--that makes the forbidden thing figure as the one thing altogether desirable. Doubtless I have the twist, in common with other men: but the difference remains.” “You have written to Elizabeth?” “Yes; I wrote last night at the hotel in Chattanooga.” “I hope you said all you ought to say.” “I tried conscientiously to do just that, Poictiers. I’ll confess now that I didn’t begin to see how dastardly it would look when it was written out in black on white. But I didn’t spare myself in the least.”