The lawyer retired to a table on which there were pens and ink. The man in the bed looked up at Reggie with unblinking eyes.
'You're not my--brother.'
'I am.'
'You don't--look--like my brother. He--was only a boy. Come--closer. Lean--down. I can't--see you--that way off.'
Reggie leaned over the bed. The sick man put up his hand, from which I observed that the bank-notes had disappeared--though I had seen nothing of the sleight-of-hand which had spirited them away--and with his fingers softly stroked the young man's face. Reggie remained perfectly quiescent while he did it.
'You're--like--your mother. Thank God--you're not--your father's son.' When he said this I was conscious of a catching in my breath. The thing was true. Though how he knew it--save on one presumption--was beyond me altogether. Reggie bore a striking resemblance to his mother, and none whatever to his father. The man in the bed droned on. 'Your--mother--was a good woman. Your--father--was a beast. Like me. Are you--a beast?'
'I hope not.'
'Most men are. Poor devils!' There was a pause before he spoke again. He still touched Reggie softly with his finger-tips, as if doing so brought him a curious sort of comfort. 'You're like your mother, Reggie?'
'Yes.'
'I wish--I wish----. You know what I wish.'