Justin drew a long breath. His voice was choked and the words sounded hoarse and strange.
“I reckon I ought to 'a’ told you a good while ago,” Sanders apologized; “but I kinder felt that it would please Davison, and after that trouble you an’ me had I didn’t want to tell it; and, so, I didn’t.”
His cunning gray eyes shone vindictively.
“I don’t mind sayin’ to you that I wouldn’t turn my hand over to save Davison from the pit, if he is your father; he didn’t do right by me, an’ you didn’t do right by me. It won’t please him to know that you’re his son, fer you’re fightin’ him teeth an’ nail; and so I’m willin’ to tell it now.”
Sanders’ ulterior motive was exposed. First and last hatred of Philip Davison and of Justin had guided him.
“It must be a pleasure to you to know who your father really is,” said Sibyl, sweetly.
Justin regarded her steadily, without actually seeing her. His faculties were turned inward.
“Yes, that is true; I am glad to know who my father is. I have wondered about it many times. But I never dreamed it could be Mr. Davison. It doesn’t seem possible now.”
Yet in his hands he held the unimpeachable record.
Sanders rose, shuffling and awkward.