otions are
thwarted by an interlude of farce.

"I've had enough of this quarrelling," she retorted. "You know that the
Silts are inaccurate. I think you might have given me the benefit of
the doubt. If you will know--have you forgotten that ride you took with
him?"

"I--" he was again bewildered. "The ride where I dreamt--"

"The ride where you turned back because you could not listen to a
disgraceful poem?"

"I don't understand."

"The poem was Aunt Emily. He read it to you and a stray soldier.
Afterwards you told me. You said, 'Really it is shocking, his
ingratitude. She ought to know about it' She does know, and I should be
glad of an apology."

He had said something of the sort in a fit of irritation. Mrs. Silt was
right--he had helped to turn the scale.

"Whatever I said, you knew what I meant. You knew I'd sooner cut my
tongue out than have it used against him. Even then." He sighed. Had he
ruined his brother? A curious tenderness came over him, and passed when
he remembered his own dead child. "We have ruined him, then. Have you
any objection to 'we'? We have disinherited him."

"I decide against you," interposed Herbert. "I have now heard both
sides of this deplorable affair. You are talking most criminal nonsense.
'Disinherit!' Sentimental twaddle. It's been clear to me from the first
that Mrs. Failing has been imposed upon by the Wonham man, a person with
no legal claim on her, and any one who exposes him performs a public
duty--"

"--And gets money."

"Money?" He was always uneasy at the word. "Who mentioned money?"

"Just understand me, Herbert, and of what it is that I accuse my wife."
Tears came into his eyes. "It is not that I like the Wonham man, or
think that he isn't a drunkard and worse. He's too awful in every way.
But he ought to have my aunt's money, because he's lived all his life
with her, and is her nephew as much as I am. You see, my father went
wrong." He stopped, amazed at himself. How easy it had been to say! He
was withering up: the power to care about this stupid secret had died.

When Herbert understood, his first thought was for Dunwood House.

"Why have I never been told?" was his first remark.

"We settled to tell no one," said Agnes. "Rickie, in his anxiety to
prove me a liar, has broken his promise."

"I ought to have been told," said Herbert, his anger increasing. "Had I
known, I could have averted this deplorable scene."

"Let me conclude it," said Rickie, agai