When James Brood and Frederic left the dining-room, nearly an hour prior to the departure of Mrs Desmond, there was in the mind of each the resolution to make short work of the coming interview. Each knew that the time had arrived for the parting of the ways, and neither had the least desire to prolong the suspense. Frederic, far from suspecting the ordeal in store for him, experienced a curious sense of exaltation as he followed the master of the house up the stairway. He was about to declare his freedom; the very thought of it thrilled him. He had at last found the courage to revolt, and there was cause for rejoicing in the prospect of a lively triumph over what he was pleased to call oppression. He would not mince matters! Oh, no; he would come straight to the point. There wasn't any sense in temporising. There were years of pent-up grievances that he could fling at his father, but he would crystallise them into a few withering minutes and have done with the business. He knew he was as pale as a ghost and his legs were strangely weak, but he was not cognisant of the slightest sensation of fear, nor the least inclination to shrink from the consequences of that brief, original challenge. The study door was closed. James Brood put his hand on the knob, but before turning it faced the young man with an odd mixture of anger and pity in his eyes. “Perhaps it will be better if we had nothing more to say to each other,” he said with an effort. “I have changed my mind. I cannot say the thing to you that I----” “Has it got anything to do with Yvonne and me?” demanded Frederic ruthlessly, jumping at conclusions in his new-found arrogance. Brood threw open the door. “Step inside,” he said in a voice that should have warned the younger man, it was so prophetic of disaster. Frederic had touched the open sore with that unhappy question. Not until this instant had James Brood admitted to himself that there was a sore and that it had been festering all these weeks. Now it was laid bare and it smarted with pain. Nothing could save Frederic after that reckless, deliberate thrust at the very core of the malignant growth that lay so near the surface. It had been in James Brood's heart to spare the boy. An unaccountable wave of compassion had swept through him as he mounted the stairs, leading his victim to the sacrifice. He would have allowed him to go his way in ignorance of the evil truth; he would have spared the son of Matilde and been happier, far happier, he knew, for having done so. He would have let him fare forth, as he elected to go, rejoicing in his foolish independence, scorning to the end of his days, perhaps, the man who posed as father to him. But Frederic had touched the hateful sore. His chance was gone.