In his study he poured himself out a glass of brandy. The events of the afternoon had tried him severely, and he looked older and more frail than ever. He was deeply mortified by the discovery that the popular feeling was all against the Boers, and he recognized that war was certain. Still he hoped that if England were the one to proclaim it Europe might intervene, and for his own part resolved to throw all possible obstacles in the way. Scarse was a true patriot. He could not have loved England more had he been born a German or a Frenchman! He lay down for an hour. The sleep refreshed him, and he awoke with a clearer brain. On returning to his study he set about writing a letter to the Press, alleging that the failure of the meeting was due to a Jingoistic conspiracy. While engaged on this precious epistle, Van Zwieten was announced, and Mr. Scarse came forward with outstretched hands. "Ah, my dear fellow! I am so glad to see you. What a terrible afternoon it has been! A conspiracy, Van Zwieten--a conspiracy! The voice of the people has been stifled, my dear friend." "It didn't sound like it this afternoon," said the Dutchman, drily. "They all called for war. Well, if they want it, they shall have it. And won't they be sorry when they get it." "No war--no war. I shall protest----" "Oh, your protests won't do any good," said the other, rudely; "the tide runs too strong for you to drive it back with a mop. But I didn't come here to talk politics, Mr. Scarse." "In that case I must ask you to go." Mr. Scarse was offended. "I have much to do." "You will have to lay it by then for the time being. I called to tell you that I met a friend of yours to-day--yes, at the meeting." "Who?" "That is what I want to hear from your lips. I know who he is from his own. He wears a yellow coat and a crape scarf." Mr. Scarse's face became grey, and he fell against the wall with staring eyes and extended hands. "I don't know him--I assure you I don't!" he said hoarsely. "I think you do. He is the man who was in your study at Chippingholt on the night of the murder--the man whom you sent away by train. In a word, Mr. Scarse, he is your brother--your twin brother!" CHAPTER XII. A STORY OF THE PAST. The old man sprang up with the light of fury in his pale eyes and flung himself on Van Zwieten. For an instant he was more than a match for the big Dutchman. "How dare you--I have no brother," he gasped. Then as suddenly this strength, born of anger, went out of him, and he became weak as a child. Van Zwieten picked him up like a baby and flung him roughly into a chair. "Sit there," he said sternly. "I mean to know the whole of this story," and he busied himself lighting the lamp. "There is--no--no story." "There is, and, what's more, you will tell it to me." "I won't," cried Mr. Scarse, shivering and forgetting his previous denial. "You can't force me to speak."