'That is proof enough,' he said, laying a trembling hand upon the miniature of his mother upon the table.
'Almost,' answered Ryder, 'but not enough. We are both very like poor mother.'
'We are very like each other.' Jim's faculties were stunned for the time; there was a dreamlike unreality in their positions.
Ryder nodded. 'We are.'
'It must have been that and your resemblance to my mother impressed me. I was impressed without consciousness of the reason.'
'Miss Woodrow noticed the resemblance, and when I heard your name and your age I thought it very likely that you were my brother. When I saw you that night in the shanty I was almost convinced. These satisfied me.' He indicated the scattered articles upon the table.
Jim made no demonstration; he sat with his eyes fixed upon the miniature, still dazed by the blow. There was something in his had—something he wished to know, but his ideas were all out of control. The thought centred with a shock.
'Good God, no!' he cried, clutching Ryder with a nerveless hand. 'They hanged my brother!'
Ryder's face was perfectly bloodless; it looked cold. He shook his head slowly.
'I was condemned to be hanged. They altered it to transportation for life.'