Matthew shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “Your word is about as good as your bond,” he said, taking up his hat and stick. Usher rose and leaned his hands on the table and regarded him reproachfully, wagging his head. “I could not blacken the character of my only son, Matthew. He has been wild, but I have a parent's love. Why should I give him £400 a year when he did not need it? But when he has come to me in distress, I have relieved his necessities.” “I have learned all I wanted to know,” said Matthew. “Good-night to you.” And he strode out of the room. An hour or two later he was sitting alone with Sylvester over their wine, in the comfortable dining-room, as he had done so many, many times before,--and the same silence reigned between them. He lay back in his chair and watched his son, whose face was turned from him in half profile. He wondered what were the thoughts that held him so serious, as he gazed into the fire. It was a man's face, marked with the cares of life, the responsibilities of an anxious profession; proud, reserved, and intellectual. Matthew was immensely proud of him. In this hour of relaxed moral fibre, he was humbly grateful, wondered what pleasure a brilliant man like Sylvester could find in the company of a dull old country lawyer. It was only the love between them. His heart warmed towards his son, and a foolish moisture gathered in his eyes. And then, almost suddenly, came a great longing to tell Sylvester all. He was a physician, accustomed to view the dark places in the human soul. If only he could tell him, share with him the burden he had borne for so many years! It would no longer be a burden. He would face the world at last, a free man. For otherwise what would be the end? He himself was on the verge of ruin. He might spit upon Usher's gaberdine, but Usher's demands must be met. How to meet them and preserve an inheritance for Sylvester? And Roderick? He felt crushed by this evening's revelations. He had struggled as few men have struggled to make atonement. It had been in vain. He had no longer the strength to make fresh effort. A word to Sylvester, and peace would possess his soul. Sylvester glanced round and saw his father's eyes fixed upon him with a strange yearning. He rose, went up to his chair, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” he asked, with more tenderness than usual in his tone. “Think well of me when I am gone, Syl,” said the old man. Sylvester grasped his shoulder a little tighter. “That's a strange thing to ask me,” he said. “You know what I think of you. And for God's sake don't talk of the other matter.” He moved away and struck a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out during his reverie. Matthew was silent for a few seconds. “Suppose,” he said at last, “that any one you loved and thought the world of had done you a great wrong and had kept it hidden from you?”