fection had not existed between us.

"Whose son am I, then?" I continued, after a pause, "and who is my
mother."

"I shall not say," she said, "it is enough that you are not my son."

"And my sisters, Elizabeth and Katherine, are they not really my
sisters? If not, who are they, and who are you?"

"I shall not tell you," she said, and then stopped, as if in doubt.
"Yes, I will though," she continued. "You are not my son, for you are
the son of your father's first wife. No one here knew that he was
married before he married me, I made him promise none should. He never
brought his first wife home here, for he married her privately. He
would have brought her home when you were born had she not died. A few
months afterwards he married me, and I came home as his wife, and you
passed as my child, it being given out that we had been married more
than a year. When I had a child of my own I hated you, and when I saw
your father loved you best I hated you more. Now you know why I have
always been your enemy." This information stunned me. I had not
expected this kind of meeting. As yet no definite word had been spoken
concerning the real object of my coming all the way from Asia. I
determined, however, to do my duty and to confess my sin. Only when I
had realised strength to do the right had I realised ease of
conscience, and because Wilfred was only my half-brother was no reason
why I should keep back the words that seemed to burn my lips.

I was about to speak again and tell all when I saw a form in the
doorway which made me think my senses must have left me, and I had
become a madman.

CHAPTER XXVIII

TREWINION'S CURSE

I rose from the chair on which I had been sitting during the latter
part of my conversation with my mother, and made one step forward.

"Wilfred!"

"Roger!"

"You here!" I exclaimed bewildered.

"Ah, my presence surprises you, does it?" he said, and every tone of
his voice told of vindictiveness--hatred.

For a moment I could not think; my head whirled and I staggered to my
seat as though I were a drunken man. Wilfred was not dead, the guilt
of his murder did not rest upon me, I was free--free! I had not hurled
him to his death on that awful night; my gloomy forebodings had no real
foundation.

How had he managed to escape? I had stood with him alone on that dizzy
height, and as far as I remembered the cliff was perpendicular there;
he had I felt slipped from me, and I ha