“But I stopped all that. I threatened even to desert my brother—which, of course, I did not really intend to do—unless he ceased his attentions. Then Orizaba came upon the scene. I met him before my mother did. It was I to whom the proofs of his relationship were first exhibited. He also had been a friend of Tom’s—at least, so it was said. And—need we go farther into that subject?”
“No. I am very glad that we have cleared the atmosphere of things by this talk.”
“And I am glad, too. More so than you can understand. It seems to me right, now, that you should share my secret, although an hour ago, before you spoke to me on the subject, I would sooner have died than have shared it with you.”
“Has your father or your mother any idea that your brother, Tom, is alive?”
“No. At least, father has none. Sometimes I have thought that my mother is not convinced of his death—and yet, I am sure that she is not convinced that he lives.”
“And Reginald?”
“Reginald believes that Tom is dead, of course. You must know, Mr. Carter, that Tom was my childhood’s idol. He was a saint—a god—a big brother, who was brave and fearless.”
“I understand.”
“Can you tell me no more about him?” she asked pleadingly.
“At present there is no more to tell. I know nothing more than I have told you. He did not tell me that he was your brother, nor was I sure that he was so until I questioned you just now.”