“I don’t know,” said Jack, quietly. “Don’t worry about that now.”
“Stephen told me,” said the old man, grimly. “He has told me every piece of wickedness you have done. He is a kind-hearted man, is—Ste—phen.”
“We never were friends, sir,” he said. “But don’t talk now.”
“I must,” murmured the old man. “Now or never, and—give me your hand, Jack.”
“I’ve had yours ever since I came in,” said Jack, simply.
“Oh, I didn’t know it. Good-by, boy—don’t—don’t end up like this. It—and—for Heaven’s sake don’t cry!” for Jack emitted a suspicious little choking sound, and his eyes were dim. “Good-by; don’t be too disappointed. Justice, Jack, justice. Where is Stephen?—send him to me. I”—and the old sardonic smile came back—“I like to see him—he amuses me!”
The eyes closed; Jack waited a moment, then pressed the cold hand, and crept from the room.
Half way down the stairs he leaned his arm on the balustrade and dropped his face on it for a minute or two, then choking back his tears, went into the library—where Stephen was sitting reading a volume of sermons—and pointed up-stairs.
“My uncle wants me?” murmured Stephen. “I will go. Might I recommend this book to you, my dear Jack; it contains——”
Jack, I regret to say, chucked the volume into a corner of the room, and Stephen, with a mournfully reproachful sigh, shook his head and left the room.