"Quite so. It is. And now, O brother of mine, may I ask what motive you had in originating such a gratuitously mischievous and infernally backbiting story?" Hubert's first alarm had given way to exasperation and venomous resentment. Over and above inspiring him with considerable fear, this inconvenient brother of his had quite spoiled his little programme for the evening. "Go to blazes and find out," he answered again with an impudent sneer. "Or better still--ask Olive Ingelow what she thinks on the subject-- Ha-ha-ha!" But his laughter died, for with a furious curse the other had seized him by the throat. They were perilously near the edge of the chasm to indulge in a wrestling bout. And like a whisper from hell there flashed through the exile's brain a vivid picture of all he had undergone from that sad parting scene in Wandsborough street to this hour, and probably she for whose sake he had given up all and was now an outcast had allowed her mind to be poisoned against him by the lying reports emanating from the slanderous tongue of this ungrateful and heartless young villain, this serpent who was his brother. "Whisper _her_ name again, and I'll choke the life out of you," he ejaculated, almost inarticulate with fury. But Hubert, exasperated beyond measure, forgot all his prudence. "Yes, I will," he shrieked, wrenching himself free. "You asked just now who I was expecting to-night. What if it was the lovely Olive herself?" But again the speaker's voice failed him. Again his face went livid with deadly fear. He recoiled and would fain have fled before the terrible effect of his words. Behind lay the dark, yawning mouth of the chasm. His wild scream for help was choked in his throat. There was a fall--a scuffle and a slide. A human figure rolled down the sloping rock, with fingers convulsively clutching the merciless, unyielding stone, and face upturned to the cold moon in a paroxysm of deadly terror, then disappeared into the black chasm. A metallic sound as of stones dislodged striking against the sides of the fissure, then a dull splash far below and--silence. He who was left upon the height above stood motionless for some minutes, his chest heaving and a perfect hell of fiendlike ferocity inflaming his countenance. Then he advanced to the edge of the fissure and peered fearlessly down. All was black as ink. Here and there the moonlight from without fell upon an angle of rock far beneath with a ghostly glint, but there was no sign of life--or death; nothing to tell that a human being had just been hurled down that terrific chasm to his last account. No accusing voice in the air--to proclaim aloud over the placid sea, to thunder forth from the hard, frowning cliffs--or even to whisper into the survivor's ear the ghastly tale of this chill winter's night--Murder. And they two were brothers.