“Now I don’t follow you,” Percival Ford answered. “You’re up in the air with some obscure scientific theory of heredity and personal irresponsibility. But how any theory can hold Joe Garland irresponsible for his wrongdoings and at the same time hold me personally responsible for them—more responsible than any one else, including Joe Garland—is beyond me.”
“It’s a matter of delicacy, I suppose, or of taste, that prevents you from following me,” Dr. Kennedy snapped out. “It’s all very well, for the sake of society, tacitly to ignore some things, but you do more than tacitly ignore.”
“What is it, pray, that I tacitly ignore!”
Dr. Kennedy was angry. A deeper red than that of constitutional Scotch and soda suffused his face, as he answered:
“Your father’s son.”
“Now just what do you mean?”
“Damn it, man, you can’t ask me to be plainer spoken than that. But if you will, all right—Isaac Ford’s son—Joe Garland—your brother.”
Percival Ford sat quietly, an annoyed and shocked expression on his face. Kennedy looked at him curiously, then, as the slow minutes dragged by, became embarrassed and frightened.
“My God!” he cried finally, “you don’t mean to tell me that you didn’t know!”
As in answer, Percival Ford’s cheeks turned slowly grey.