‘But——’
‘Not a question——’ The old man silenced him. ‘I cast him off.’ There was something terrible in the indifference with which he said this. ‘He was a fool—a criminal one. I heard later that he had married—no doubt as great a fool as himself. I hope so. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know.’
He laughed bitterly—the cruel, mirthless laugh of the embittered old. ‘For the rest, I know nothing,’ he said.
‘You made no inquiries?’
‘None. Why should I?’
‘He was your son.’
‘Well, does that make a black thing white? No—no! My son—my child is here!’ He touched the loose papers with a loving hand.
Wyndham did not pursue the subject further, and as if to show that it was ended, he stooped and threw some coals upon the fire that now seemed to be at its last gasp. A tiny smoke flew up between the fresh lumps, and after that came a little uncertain blaze. The fire had caught the coals.
The Professor had gone back to his heart’s desire.
‘To see the blossom of my labour bear fruit—that is my sole, my last demand from life. I have so short a time to live that I would hasten the fulfilment of my hopes.’