He had been so taken by surprise; the question so abruptly put to him, had afforded him no clue as to how much or how little of the truth was known to his brother, that for the moment his presence of mind had deserted him, and before he had time to recover himself, Clem had challenged the truth. "Well, he has got the truth now, and much good may it do him," said Edward, grimly, to himself. "Why should he not share it with me? The burthen has been a bitter one to bear. It has led me to do things such as at one time I would have believed no power on earth could have forced me into doing. Yes, let Clem take his share. He is a grown man; why should we not halve the secret? I am not sorry that it has come about as it has. But how and from whom did he obtain the clue?" Clem read the letter twice over, the first time quickly, and then slowly and deliberately, so that the pith and almost the exact words of each sentence burned themselves indelibly into his memory. Then he refolded it and passed it back to his brother, and then the two sat and looked at each other for a little while in sorrowful silence. Clement was the first to speak. "You have known this all along, and yet you never told me," he said, with an accent of reproach. "Where was the need? What good end would it have served? It was enough that one of us should have to carry such a secret about with him. I was the elder, and the burden devolved of right upon me. Besides, my father evidently relied upon my telling no one--not even you." "It was my duty and my right to have shared it with you. In any case, I am glad--if, indeed, one can be glad about anything in connection with so terrible a secret--that the knowledge has come to me now instead of later on." "Could I have had my way, it would never have come to you. But before we discuss the matter further, tell me what led you to put that question to me which you flung at my head, as it were, with such startling suddenness." Thereupon Clement proceeded to enlighten his brother as to all that had passed between himself and Ephraim Judd. "It is a strange story," said Edward, when he had finished; "but I see no reason for doubting its credibility. All along I have been possessed by a sort of intuitive certainty that one day the truth would leap to light in a way the least expected, and now it has done so. After all, it will be a relief to have someone to share the secret with." "You should have shared it with me from the first. But the question now is, what ought to be done next?" "I scarcely follow you." "I mean, as regards John Brancker. Ought he not to be told?" "Told what?" "What Ephraim Judd told me. It was the last wish of the dying man, as expressed by him to me, that such reparation should be made as was still possible."