“What devilish story are you telling me? Let me have it at once, all of it,” cried Sylvester. There was a slight pause. Usher passed the tip of his tongue over his lips, and again he hugged himself in his armchair. “I have been waiting to tell you this for thirty years. For your dear father's sake I have held my peace. I am a peaceful man. But I could not let you send your own brother to prison, your dear mother's son. Fraternal love is a wondrous thing.” “Come to the point and tell me, or I may not be responsible for what I do,” said Sylvester, in husky menace. The swelling triumph of his long-deferred vengeance had not quite overmastered a craven spirit. A glance out of the corner of his eye assured Usher of Sylvester's desperation. The sight was an unholy mingling of delight and fear. He rubbed his soft palms together and wagged his head. “It is a sad story. I blame my wife. She acted wrongly. We lived in Australia on a little farm. I am fond of rural pursuits. Ayresford is rural. That is why I came here. We were married and happy with our little child. We called him Roderick. It is a family name, but perhaps that would not interest you. He was three years old when your father came to these parts. Ah! he was a dashing young fellow then. He is not dashing now. Poor Matthew!” “Damn you!” said Sylvester. “Ah! that is what your father has often said. You are like your father. Well, to shorten a long story, he fell in love with my wife, and she with him, and she ran away with him to England, leaving me alone with our poor little boy Roderick. Here are proofs.” He patted the sheaf of papers on his lap and signed to Sylvester to read them; but Sylvester motioned a negative. He was convinced. His anger had subsided into he knew not what state of reeling horror. Yet through it all Usher himself was revealed to him, and he regarded him as something obscene. “And you have received money from my father all this time as the price of silence.” “I was poor, and I forgave mine enemy. I am a forgiving man. It is my way. When your dear mother died I came here and lived near him, to show that I forgave him.” “Like father, like son,” said Sylvester,--“a blackmailer and a forger. Oh, my God!” He turned away and stood with bowed head, staring at the carpet, his hands clenched. Without moving he said hoarsely,-- “Go. We have nothing more to say to each other.” “You see you can't let your dear brother go to a felon's doom--and your legitimate brother, too, my dear Sylvester,” said Usher, smacking his lips at each word. Then he rose and buttoned his frock-coat and went out of the room, chuckling quietly. Presently Sylvester roused himself with a great shuddering sigh. “Oh, God!” he said, and moved a step or two towards the fire. There was a knock at the door and a servant entered, bearing a letter on a tray. “Miss Lanyon said I was to give you this at once, sir.”