The dictation was relentless: “I confess that I stole”—the quivering face of the younger man looked up for an instant, but Bransby did not meet the look (perhaps he, too, was suffering), his eyes were on space, his fingers lifting and falling on his carved toy. Stephen looked up, but his pen moved mechanically on—“ten thousand pounds from my uncle, Richard Bransby—and I forged my brother Hugh’s handwriting in the ledger.” Pryde laid down the pen.
“Sign it.”—He did.
“Date it.”—He did.
“Give it to me.” The hand that took the paper shook more than the hand that had written it.
“Do you know where your brother has gone? Have a care that you tell me the truth from this on—it’s your only chance. Do you know where he has gone?”
“No!”
“Go find him—if you hope for mercy. Bring him back here by to-morrow.”
Stephen rose with a shrug. For an evil moment Richard Bransby’s life was in peril. Stephen stood behind him, murder hot in his heart, insane in his eyes, and clenched in his fist: all the hurt and the thwart of years joined with the rage and dilemma of the moment, ready to spring, to avenge and to kill. Bransby saw nothing—not even the jade he still fingered. Then with a gesture of scorn he tore into bits the note of resignation he had made Stephen write. “I’ll see the Colonel myself. That will be best,” he said.
At that instant, Bransby’s head bowed, Pryde’s hand still raised, Mrs. Leavitt’s voice rose in the hall, fussed and querulous, “Who left this here? Barker!” Bransby did not hear her, but Pryde did. His arm fell to his side, he forced a mask of calm to his face, and then without a word he went. He did not even look towards his uncle again; but at the door he turned and looked bitterly, hungrily, at the picture over the fireplace. Poor Stephen!
In the hall Caroline Leavitt hailed him. “Not going out, Stephen?”