"And I have shaken this man's hand!" cried George. "I am the husband of his daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof—in this house, which was bought perhaps with my brother's blood. Great heavens! it is too horrible."
For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strange discovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamond came and peeped in at the door.
"Still busy, George?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, "I am very busy."
That altered voice alarmed the loving wife. She crept into the room, and stood behind her husband's chair.
"George," she said, "your voice sounded so strange just now; you are not ill, are you, darling?"
"No, no; I only want to be alone. Go, Rosamond."
The wife could not fail to be just a little offended by her husband's manner. The pretty rosy lips pouted, and then tears came into the bright blue eyes.
George Jernam's head was bent upon his clasped hands, and he took no heed of his wife's sorrow. She could not leave him without one more anxious question.
"Is there anything amiss with you, George?" she asked.