The tall young man in gray was on his knees, tearing the hands of the old man away. He saw the mark clearly now. There was no further use of attempting to conceal it. Rudolph rose and faced his angered nephew, his watery eyes inscrutable. "You told me, Rudolph, that it was a brand that cursed me. I have seen it on him, too. You have lied to me." The old man's eyes wavered. He trembled violently. "Why did you lie?" demanded Karl. "Am I not your nephew? Am I not really cursed as you've maintained? Tell me--tell me!" He had the old man by the shoulders, shaking him cruelly. "Karl--Karl," begged the helpless ancient, "it was for your good. I swear it. You were born to the purple. That's what that mark means--not that you're degraded to the gray, as I said. But there's a reason. Let me explain." "Bah! A reason! You've kept me in this misery and squalor for a reason! Who's my father?" He flung Rudolph to the floor, where the old man crouched in apprehensive misery. "Please Karl--don't! I can explain. Just give me time. It's a long story." "Time! Time! For twenty-odd years you've lied to me; cheated me. My birthright--where is it?" He menaced his supposed uncle; was about to strike him. Then suddenly he was ashamed. He turned on his heel. "I'm leaving," he said shortly. "Karl--my boy," begged Rudolph Krassin, struggling to his feet. "You can't! That lad in there--he--" But Karl was too angry to reason. "To hell with him!" he raged, "and to hell with you! I'm through!" He stamped from the room and out into the eery shadows of the Way. Karl was done with his old life. He'd go to the upper levels and claim his rights. Some day, too, he'd punish the man who'd stolen them away. God! Born to the purple! To think he'd missed it all! Probably was kidnaped by the old rascal he'd been calling uncle. But he'd find out. Rudolph didn't have to explain. Fingerprint records would clear his name; establish his rightful station in life. He dived into a passage that would lead him to one of the express lifts. He'd soon be overhead. * * * * * A sergeant of the red police looked up startled from his desk as a tall youth in the gray denim of forty levels below appeared before him. "Well?" he growled. The stalwart young worker had stared belligerently and insolently, he thought. "I want to check my fingerprint record, Sergeant." "Hm. Pretty cocky, aren't you? The records for such as you are down below, where you belong." "Not mine, I think." "So? And who the devil are you?" "That's what I'm here to find out. I've got a triangle branded on my right hip." "A what?" "Triangle. Here--look!" The amazing youngster had raised his jacket and was pulling at his shirt. The sergeant stared at what was revealed, his eyes bulging as he looked. "Lord!" he gasped, "a Van Dorn--in the gray!"