“You dog!” I cried. “Oh, you dog, you dog! You did know it, of course, and you had the devil’s heart to lie to my father and beat him down in the dust for your own filthy ends! Had I a hand in my brother’s death? You know I had not any more than you--perhaps not so much!” On the snap of the thought I spurned him from me and staggered back. “Why,” I cried, staring at him standing cowering and sullen before me. “Had you, if the truth were known? You were in the house that night!” He choked once or twice and, smoothing down the apple in his throat with a nervous hand, came out of his corner a pace or two. “You can put two and two together,” he said in a shrill voice, defiant still, but with a whining ring in it. “What interest could I possibly have in murdering your brother? For the rest--you may be right.” “And you can say it and plume yourself upon having successfully traded on the lie?” “Yes,” he said, with a recovering grin, “I think I can.” I turned from him, sick at his mere presence. “And now,” said he, “I intend to trade upon the truth.” I forced myself to face round upon him again. “The boy,” he said, looking down hatefully and shifting some papers on the table with his finger-tips, “it was obvious to any but the merest ignoramus, never died of drowning.” “How then?” “From the appearances--of strangulation, I should say.” “Strangulation? Who----” “Do you want these trifles back? Ask your father first why he had Modred’s braces in his pocket the morning after? He was very drunk that night--furiously drunk; and he left me alone in the parlor for awhile.” CHAPTER XXXIV. I VISIT A GRAVE. All that night I tossed and tossed, in vain effort to court the sleep that should quench the fever in my racked and bewildered brain. My errand had been a failure. In every sense but the purely personal, it had been a failure. And now, indeed, that personal side was the one that least concerned me. As to every other soul in whom I was interested, it seemed that a single false step on my part might lead to the destruction of any one of them. Where could I look for the least comfort or assistance? My father had glanced anxiously at me when I returned the evening before. “It has been as you prophesied,” I said. “The man is a devil.” He gave a heavy sigh and drooped his head. “What did he tell you?” he muttered. “He told me lies, father, I feel sure. But he is too cunning a villain to play without a second card up his sleeve.” The old man raised imploring eyes to my face. “Dad!” I cried, “is it true you have bought his silence all these years for my sake?” At that he rose to his feet suddenly. “No word of that!” he shrieked; “not a word! I can’t bear it!” I looked at him with my throat swelling. “I’ll not refer to it, if you wish it,” I said, gently. “I do wish it. What does it amount to? How could I do less?” “Very well, dad. I’ll keep my gratitude in my heart.”