in, you see," he chuckled, pushing up his sleeves and
pulling his tie straight. "George, dear boy, I'll have you in
mincemeat before I get at any of your well-covered vitals."

A blind fury seized me. I drove in on him. He turned me aside with a
grin and thrust heavily at me in return. I darted to the left, making
no endeavour to push aside his weapon with my own but relying only on
the agility of my body. With an oath, he floundered forward, and
before he could recover I brought the flat of my heavy broadsword
crashing down on the top of his head. His arm went up with a nervous
jerk and his rapier flew from his hand, shattering against a high
window and sending the broken glass rattling on to the cement walk
below.

Harry sagged to the floor like a sack of flour and lay motionless on
his face, his arms and legs spread out like a spider's.

I was bending down to turn him over, when I heard my father's voice on
the other side of the door.

"Stand back! I'll see to this," he cried, evidently addressing the
frightened servants.

I turned round. The door swung on its immense hinges and my father
stood there, with staring eyes and pallid face, taking in the situation
deliberately, looking from me to Harry's inert body beside which I
knelt. Slowly he came into the centre of the room.

Full of anxiety, I looked at him. But there was no opening in that
stern, old face for any explanations. He did not assail me with a
torrent of words nor did he burst into a paroxysm of grief and anger.
His every action was calculated, methodical, remorseless.

He turned to the open door.

"Go!" he commanded sternly. "Leave us,--leave Brammerton. I never
wish to see you again. You are no son of mine."

His words seared into me. I held out my hands.

"Go!" he repeated quietly, but, if anything, more firmly.

"Good God! father,--won't you hear what I have to say in explanation?"
I cried in vexatious desperation.

He did not answer me except with his eyes--those eyes which could say
so much.

My anger was still hot within me. My inborn sense of fairness deeply
resented this conviction on less than even circumstantial evidence;
and, at the back of all that, I,--as well as he, as well as Harry,--was
a Brammerton, with a Brammerton's temperament.

"Do you mean this, father?" I asked.

"Go!" he reiterated. "I have nothing more to say to such an unnatural
son, such an unnatural brother as you are."

I bowed, pulled