Greifenstein’s tough face turned slowly grey.
‘A half-brother,’ he answered with an effort. ‘My mother married again.’
Greif glanced sideways at his father and saw that he was oddly affected by the inquiry. But the young man had his own reasons for wishing to know the truth.
‘Why have you never told me that I had an uncle?’ he asked.
‘He is no uncle of yours, my boy, nor brother of mine!’ answered Greifenstein bitterly.
‘I fought about him the other day. That is all,’ said Greif.
‘He is not worth fighting for.’
‘Then the story is true?’
‘What story?’ Greifenstein stopped short in his walk and fixed his sharp eyes on his son’s face. ‘What story? What do you know?’
‘A man told me that your brother had been discharged from the army with infamy—infam cassirt—and condemned to imprisonment, for betraying some arsenal or armoury into the hands of the rebels in 1848. I told him—well—that he lied. What else could I say? I had never heard of the scoundrel.’