"Why,—why,—did not you kill me, when you had me in your power?"
"Brother, the blood of John Augustus Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."
"And you could have put poison in my drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against his will by the manner of his brother.
"I never heard of a Royalton who became a poisoner."
"A Royalton? and you call yourself a Royalton?" said Harry, still regarding his brother with a sidelong gaze.
Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms upon his chest, as if to choke down the strong emotions which were struggling within him. He did not reply.
"I suppose I am your prisoner?" asked Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face. "You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth of December has passed. Is that the dodge?"
"Brother, the door is open, and the way is free, whenever you wish to leave this house," was Randolph's calm reply.
"Well, if I can make you out, may I be ——!" cried Harry, and the next moment uttered a groan of agony, for his back was very painful. "Why did you not take me to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient tone.
"You forget that I did not know the name of your hotel," replied Randolph, "and beside, what place so fitting for a sick man as his brother's home?"