Phil regarded his step-brother with scorn.

"Can't you tell the truth now and then, Jonas?" he asked contemptuously.

"You shall not insult my boy in my presence!" said Mrs. Brent, with a
little spot of color mantling her high cheek-bones. "Philip Brent, I
have too long endured your insolence. You think because I am a woman you
can be insolent with impunity, but you will find yourself mistaken. It
is time that you understood something that may lead you to lower your
tone. Learn, then, that you have not a cent of your own. You are wholly
dependent upon my bounty."

"What! Did my father leave you all his money?" asked Philip.

"He was NOT your father!" answered Mrs. Brent coldly.

CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE REVELATION.

Philip started in irrepressible astonishment as these words fell from
the lips of his step-mother. It seemed to him as if the earth were
crumbling beneath his feet, for he had felt no more certain of the
existence of the universe than of his being the son of Gerald Brent.

He was not the only person amazed at this declaration. Jonas, forgetting
for the moment the part he was playing, sat bolt upright on the sofa,
with his large mouth wide open, staring by turns at Philip and his
mother.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed in a tone indicating utter surprise and
bewilderment.

"Will you repeat that, Mrs. Brent?" asked Philip, after a brief pause,
not certain that he had heard aright.

"I spoke plain English, I believe," said Mrs. Brent coldly, enjoying the
effect of her communication.

"I said that Mr. Brent, my late husband, was not your father."

"I don't believe you!" burst forth Philip impetuously.

"You don't wish to believe me, you mean," answered his step-mother,
unmoved.

"No, I don't wish to believe you," said the boy, looking her in the eye.

"You are very polite to doubt a lady's word," said Mrs. Brent with
sarcasm.

"In such a matter as that I believe no one's word," said Phil. "I ask
for proof."

"Well, I am prepared to satisfy you. Sit down and I will tell you the
story."

Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded his step-mother
fixedly.

"Whose son am I," he demanded, "if not Mr. Brent's?"

"You are getting on too fast. Jonas," continued his mother, suddenly
turning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenance
there was an expression of greedy curiosity, "do you understand that
what I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to any
one?"