"You didn't sleep last night," I suggested.
"No," he replied, with a sigh, "I didn't sleep. I suppose I am regarded as a hard man, Mr. Erskine?"
To this I made no reply. I knew he was passing through a terrible experience, and, strange as it may seem, I wanted to do nothing to lighten his burden.
"I don't know why I have come to you at all," he went on. "You are a comparative stranger to me—indeed, a few months ago I did not know of your existence—and yet something drew me here. I suppose it is because you were fond of him."
"I loved him almost like a brother," was my reply. "If I had been his father, I should be a proud man."
He looked at me steadily for a few minutes in silence.
"I have learnt one thing anyhow," he said at length.
"What is that?"
"That one cannot destroy the ties of blood. Yes! Yes! I know I had disinherited him; driven him from home; told him he was no longer a son of mine. Yes! told him that I had put him outside my life. But it was a lie! I had not! I could not! Oh, the tragedy of it!"
"Yes, tragedy in a way," I said.