"Don't be sarcastic, Van Zwieten, it does not suit you," snapped Scarse. "My brother was a bad lot. At school and college he led the authorities a devil of a dance until he was expelled. When he came to London he took to gambling and drinking. I was never like that. My one desire was to get into Parliament, where my father had been before me, and serve my country. My sister married St. Leger--he was a subaltern then--and went out to India. My mother died, and there was no one to check Robert's pranks. My father paid his debts so often that we became quite impoverished. That is why I am so poor." "Are you poor?" asked Van Zwieten, thinking regretfully that Brenda--sweet as she was--would have no dowry. "As poor as a church mouse. I married a woman with six hundred a year, and out of that Brenda has two hundred a year. I can't touch it. What with the other four hundred and my own money I have but a thousand a year all told--little enough for a man of my position. Of course, when I die, my thousand a year will go to Brenda." "Ah!" said Van Zwieten, with much satisfaction. He was sufficiently Dutch to be very fond of money. "You needn't look so pleased, Van Zwieten. Even if you _do_ marry Brenda--which I doubt since she hates you so--you won't get my money. I'll live a long time yet, and, in any case, I'll settle it on her so that her husband--whoever he may be--can't touch it." "Quite right, Mr. Scarse. But about Robert? Please go on." "Well, Robert crowned his pranks by committing forgery, and my father had to pay I don't know how many thousands to hush the matter up. You can make no use of this admission, Mr. van Zwieten, since the man whose name was forged died long ago and the papers are all destroyed. Robert went abroad after that, and my father cut him off with a shilling. He forbade his name to be mentioned, and declared he was no son of his. Mrs. St. Leger acted in the same way, and I followed suit. I could do nothing else--if I had, my father would have disinherited me." "Most affectionate twin!" "Don't talk like that," cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Who are you to judge me? I still love my brother--after all, he is my own flesh and blood, and nearer and dearer to me than it is possible for you to imagine. But he is supposed to be dead these thirty and more years, and why should I bring him forth into the world only to be disgraced? I allow him a small income, and under another name he is as happy as ever he will be. By the way," he broke off suddenly, "how did you find out his real name?" "Oh, I saw the resemblance and made use of my knowledge of his being in Chippingholt to force him into confessing the truth. I will tell you about that later on. Go on with your story, which is truly remarkable."