“Yes, I am almost certain that Miles Morrisey is really a Darley, the son of Maurice Darley, to whom all this money belongs. When I suspected this I knew that the end had come—that I must trace the thing down and confess.”
At this point the carriage halted before the door of the house. Rex sprang out, then Roy, and both boys waited to help Sydney. But he made no movement to follow them.
“Aren’t you going to get out, Syd?” asked Roy.
“No; I have no right to live among you any more. Now that you know, it will seem like having a convict in the house. I can go to some hotel. You can send my things to me and I will stay there till—till this is settled up and they put me away.”
Roy stepped into the carriage and put his face so close to Sydney’s that the latter felt the smooth flesh against his day’s growth of beard.
“Dear old fellow,” whispered Roy, “you must come. We haven’t cast you off. And—and besides, we want you with us to help us decide what to do.”
“Don’t be so good to me, Roy. I can’t bear it.”
But as he spoke, Sydney got out, and the three went up the steps.
Nothing was said as they ascended the stairs. There was danger of disturbing the household.
“Good night, Syd,” said Roy, when they reached the top.