“But that doesn’t prove,” the nephew said promptly, “that he did this other thing” (his uncle looked up quickly, gratefully). “Of course, it’s true that gambling sometimes tempts men to steal.”
“It always does.” Bransby lapsed back into despair, and shrank back into his chair.
“But Hugh seemed so innocent,” Stephen added reflectively.
“He seemed innocent, too, when he was gambling,” the other retorted.
“Yes—that’s true.”
“And I loved him—I trusted him—I—he was always my favorite. Even now, I’m not treating you fairly. You must be suffering horribly—my poor Stephen.”
“I am suffering, sir. On your account, on my own, on poor misguided Hugh’s, I loved him too, I always shall love him; but I am suffering more, a thousand times more, for—Helen.”
Bransby gave him a startled look. He had spoken her name in a tone unmistakable. “Yes, Uncle Dick, it’s just that. It has always been that. It will never be anything else, any other way than that with me.”
In his surprise Bransby picked up his joss and put it down again several times, beating with it a nervous tattoo on the table. “Does she know?”
“Helen? No. It would only have hurt her to know. It has always been Hugh with her. But now——”