And here to-day he fared; to quiet his confused brain by an hour or two of idle research work.
Here it was that his brother Clive walked in on him.
Curtly the returned twin explained his advent and still more curtly he demanded to know the meaning of Osmun’s treatment of him. At a glance the horrified Osmun saw that this returned brother was in no mood to be cajoled or lied to.
And from previous knowledge of Clive he chose the one possible method whereby he believed he might make his peace and might even persuade the returned wanderer to leave the field to him.
Throwing himself on his brother’s mercy, he told him the whole story, omitting nothing.
For once in his twisted career Osmun Creede spoke the simple truth. Judiciously used, truth is a mighty weapon of defense, and the narrator had the sense to know it. In any event he saw it was his one chance.
But the Clive who listened with disgusted amaze to the recital was not the untried and easy-going Clive of boyhood days, the Clive who had allowed himself to be dominated by his brother’s crotchety will, and who had loved Osmun.
This was an utterly new Clive—a Clive whose pliant nature had been stiffened by peril and heroism and hardship in war and by hourly overseas contact with death and suffering.
It was a Clive who had been betrayed by his brother while he lay sick and stricken and deprived of memory. It was a Clive freed of Osmun’s olden influence and fiercely resentful of his wrongs at his brother’s hands.
He heard Osmun’s tale in grim silence. At times he winced at the tidings it gave. Oftener his haggard face gave no sign of emotion.