“I wouldn't be too nasty, if I were you,” said Frederic, a note of triumph in his voice. “Yvonne gave it to me. I made her promise to say nothing to you about it. She------” “Yvonne? Are you------ Impossible! She could not have had------” “It was lying under the marble top of that old bureau in her bedroom. She found it there when the men came to take it away to storage. It hadn't been moved in twenty years or more.” “In--her--bedroom?” murmured Brood, passing his hand over his eyes. “The old bureau--marble top--good Lord! It was our bedroom. Let me see it--give it to me this instant!” “I can't do that. It's mine now. It's safe where it is.” “Yvonne found it? Yvonne? And gave it to you? What damnable trick of fate is this? But------ Ah, it may not be a portrait of your--your mother. Some old photograph that got stuck under the------” “No; it is my mother. Yvonne saw the resemblance at once and brought it to me. And it may interest you to know that she advised me to treasure it all my life, because it would always tell me how lovely and sweet my mother was--the mother I have never seen.” “I insist on seeing that picture,” said Brood with deadly intensity. “No,” said Frederic, folding his arms tightly across his breast. “You didn't deserve her then and you------” “You don't know what you are saying, boy!” “Ah, don't I? Well, I've got just a little bit of my mother safe here over my heart--a little faded card, that's all--and you shall not rob me of that. I wish to God I had her here, just as she was when she had the picture taken. Don't glare at me like that. I don't intend to give it up. Last night I was sorry for you. I had the feeling that somehow you have always been unhappy over something that happened in the past, and that my mother was responsible. And yet when I took out this photograph, this tiny bit of old cardboard--see, it is so small that it can be carried in my waistcoat pocket--when I took it out and looked at the pure, lovely face, I--by Heaven, I knew she was not to blame!” “Have you finished?” asked Brood, wiping his brow. It was dripping. “Except to repeat that I am through with you for ever. I've had all that I can endure, and I'm through. My greatest regret is that I didn't get out long ago. But like a fool--a weak fool--I kept on hoping that you'd change and that there were better days ahead for me. I kept on hoping that you'd be a real father to me. Good Lord, what a libel on the name!” He laughed raucously. “I'm sick of calling you father. You did me the honour downstairs of calling me 'bastard.' You had no right to call me that; but, by Heaven, if it were not for this bit of cardboard here over my heart, I'd laugh in your face and be happy to shout from the housetops that I am no son of yours. But there's no such luck as that! I've only to look at my mother's innocent, soulful face to------”