dn't know the truth about your own mother."

Slowly Ewing unclasped his hands from the throat of Teevan and stood
facing the son. Two phrases rang in his ears: "He lied to you about
her--the truth about your mother." He put up a hand to loosen his
collar. It seemed now as if he himself were being choked.

"The truth about my mother--_what_ truth about my mother?"

"Sit down there."

"_What_ truth about my mother?"

"Come--get hold of yourself. The truth that your mother happened to be
my mother."

Ewing passed a hand over his face, as if to awaken himself from some
trance in which he had moved.

"Sit down there."

He felt for a chair now and sank awkwardly into it, repeating dazedly:

"My mother was your mother--" He could get no meaning from the words.
The other answered sharply:

"Your mother married my father. She left him for your father when I was
a baby. Do you understand that? Mrs. Laithe knew it. He knew it--" He
pointed toward the limp but breathing figure in the chair--"and she was
afraid he would tell you."

He tried to take it in.

"My mother--his wife? Ah--you--you are my brother."

"That's beside the point; but if it means anything to you, listen to
me--try to understand."

Again and again he told the thing point by point, as simply as he could,
while his listener stared curiously at him. The figure in the chair
stirred, the head rolled, the breathing became quieter and more even,
but neither gave any heed to this.

At last the incredible thing began to shape itself in Ewing's mind, but
it was not until the very last, and then it came as a sudden blinding
illumination. The man in the chair drew a long, shuddering breath and
opened his eyes on them. Ewing at the same moment caught the full force
of the little man's deceit. He had felt no anger toward Teevan before,
but now rage grew within him as he remembered what the woman had
suffered. He sprang toward Teevan, feeling no longer a specific desire
to kill, but only a mad impulse to beat down and blindly destroy.

"You lied about her!" he cried, towering above the little man with
clenched, threatening fists. If Teevan had retorted, had raised a hand,
or betrayed anything but abject fear, shrinking in his chair, turning
eyes of appeal to his son, Ewing would have vented his rage. But this
died into mere loathing as he looked. Teevan was near to whimpering, in
his fear. Ewing turned away with a gesture of repulsion.

"That's best, after