“What?” the astonished young man threw at him.
“I didn’t quite finish my story. You must wonder why I told it to you. You have it in your mind? That I ruined a man’s career? Deliberately, out of jealousy and hatred I ruined a man’s career?”
“Yes,” the boy answered and smiled, but the bishop did not smile.
“Do you want to know the man’s name?”
“Yes.” No faintest thought of what was coming concentrated the vague surprise of his mind. The bishop’s dark, luminous eyes played across him. A cricket sang his sudden drowsy song from the lily bed.
“The man’s name was Basil Lynn,” said the bishop.
The boy stared blankly for a long minute. Then: “You mean—it was—my father?” he brought out in successive shocks of words.
“Yes.” The grave eyes read him.
“Then—it must have been my mother—it was she—who hurt you?”
“Yes.”