“He was fighting his own son—and he knew it!” The words came in broken accents.
“He was fighting his own son, and he knew it! You mean to say that!” Horror was in her voice.
“I mean that the summer before I was born—”
He told her the story as his mother had told it to him. Then at last he said:
“And now you know Barode Barouche got what he deserved. He ruined my mother’s life; he died the easiest death such a man could die. He has also spoiled my life.”
“Nothing can spoil your life except yourself,” she declared firmly, and she laid a hand upon his arm. “Who told you all this—and when?”
“My mother in a letter last night. I had a talk with her afterwards.”
“Who else knows?”
“Only you.”
“And why did you tell me?”