"Do you mean to say that I am not your son?" he said, with a queer perplexed hesitation.
"I ask you to leave my house, sir! Do you think I'll permit myself to discuss such a subject with you?" Mr. Payson's scorn was towering.
Granthope still stared. What did it mean? He spoke again, earnestly, trying his best to keep calm. "Do you deny that you have a son, sir? I beg you to answer me."
"What the devil should I deny it for? What business is it of yours?" the old man roared. "Why should you come here asking me such outrageous questions?"
"Mr. Payson," Granthope tried again, "I told you that I had reason to believe that I am your son. You must admit that that gives me an interest in the matter. I have never known who my parents were. You needn't be afraid of my forcing myself upon you against your will, or attempting to get money from you—that is not my motive. But I have a right, for my own sake, to know the truth, and I demand that you answer!"
The old man quailed before his look and his seriousness, and began to be impressed with his sincerity. "Very well, then, I will answer you. No, sir, you are not my son, because I never had one, to my knowledge, at least. Does that satisfy you? Vixley and the Spoll woman tried that game on me and failed. Now, I'll ask you to leave me alone in peace. I have had trouble enough!" His first burst of anger having burned itself out, he weakened under the strain.
Granthope was for a moment at a loss for words. He was not prepared for this denial—he must begin all over again. He stood with his hands folded for a while, and then said:
"Very well, Mr. Payson. I will tell you now what I know, and you may judge of yourself whether or not I was justified in coming."
The old man's countenance was irresolute; his mouth had relaxed. He faced Granthope silently.
"Did you ever know Felicia Grant?" said Granthope next.