"In my life," repeated Hora with deliberation. Then he continued in accents which showed how deeply memories of the past rankled: "That is the man, Guy, to whose actions my quarrel with the world is due. Owing to him I found every man's hand raised against me. Owing to him I was compelled in self-defence to raise my hand against every man. Owing to him I became another Ishmael—thrust out into the world, branded, a mark for every man's scorn and every woman's jeers. Oh, I have taken my revenge upon the scorners," he laughed harshly, "but not upon him—not upon him—yet."
He paused, and once more, it was only with an effort that he regained control of himself. He did not again trust himself to speech. He turned on his heel abruptly. At the door he paused.
"You have given me much to think about, Guy," he said. "At present I am unable to think calmly. Some other time I will discuss the matter with you."
He left the room swiftly and the firm step of his sound leg and the following shuffle as he dragged the other foot along after it was the only sound to be heard until the closing of another door told Myra and Guy that he had shut himself in his own apartment.
CHAPTER III
THE MAKING OF A CRIMINAL
The philosophy of Lynton Hora had for once given way under the stress of a deep emotion. There could be no doubt about that, and no doubt either that the emotion which had strained the philosophy to breaking point was the emotion of hate.
Never before had Guy seen him so wrought upon. Often he had regretted that the man he called father should have been of so calm a temperament—regretted even while he admired. Himself of an impulsive, even ardent nature, he had longed to express his feelings to the one being who had been his sole companion from infancy, who had treated him with unfailing and unvarying kindness, but who chilled, with what appeared to be temperamental coldness, any expression of affection.
Guy was thrilled with the discovery that a deep sea of passion underlay Hora's cold exterior. If Hora hated, of necessity he must love.
He must love him, Guy Hora, his son. Did not every action in his life show it?
The thought awakened Guy's memory actively. His earliest memories were of the Commandatore. He had no knowledge of a mother, or but shadowy recollections, and those might merely be the offspring of his own imagination. Lynton Hora had been father and mother both. Guy could recall Hora's face bending over his bed in the days of his babyhood. He had one vivid recollection of being parted from his father when he himself was about seven years old. He had been left in the charge of some dark-haired, swarthy-faced people, and they had neglected him—had beaten him. How he had cried for his father, and when his father had returned, he remembered running to him and sobbing out his tale of misery. He remembered how Hora had told him that men never cried when they were hurt, and that he, stricken with shame, had answered that it was not the beating but the loneliness which had brought the tears to his eyes.