His object—true it was not love; now the very word seemed enough to drive him mad. The unwelcome passion of one woman heaped upon the wrongs done him by another, was enough to make the very remembrance repulsive. No, love was lost to him, he madly thought, forever. But there is yet a fiercer and more burning passion and that urged him forward. He would be revenged on the man who had torn all the joy from his life. He would meet that false brother face to face, beyond that Ralph had calculated nothing. It seemed to him that the very glances of his eyes would be enough to cover the traitor with eternal remorse. So he watched and waited before Zillah's house, hoping, burning with impatience, that Harrington would pass in or out while seeking the presence of his victim, and thus they might meet. But he watched in vain.
Already had Ralph inquired at every hotel where James Harrington would be likely to stay, and now weary and full of smouldering rage, he resolved to go home, and there await some news of him.
On his way up town, a hotel carriage passed him, filled with passengers from some newly arrived train. In that carriage Ralph saw his brother.
The carriage stopped after a little. James Harrington, dusty, pale and travel-worn, stepped out, and stood face to face with his young brother.
For one instant his fine eye lighted up, and he grasped the youth's hand.
"Ralph!"
Ralph wrenched his hand away, and James saw that his eyes were full of lurid fire.
"What is this, Ralph? You look strangely!" he said.
"I feel strangely," answered the youth, shuddering under the rush of tenderness that surged up through his wrath. "I have been searching for you, sir, waiting for you"——
"Why, it is not so long since I left home, Ralph."