Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his voice dull and empty.
"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."
Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a scoundrel."
Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would have refused it.
"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is—dead!" softly.
"God's will be done!" But Hermann's face turned lighter.
"As a boy he loved you."
"And did I not love him?" said Hermann fiercely. "Did I not worship that boy, who was to me more like a son than a brother? Had not all the brothers and sisters died but he? But you—who are you to recall these things?"
"I knew your brother; I knew him well. He was not a scoundrel; only weak. He went to America and became successful in business. He fought with the North in the war. He was not a coward; he did his fighting bravely and honorably."
"Oh, no; Hans could never, have been a coward; even his villainy required courage. But go on."