"What?" he cried. "What did you learn?"
"That you are my father," I answered slowly. "I am Francis Cludde, the son whom you deserted many years ago, and to whom Sir Anthony gave a home at Coton."
I expected him to do anything except what he did. He stared at me with astonished eyes for a minute, and then a low whistle issued from his lips.
"My son, are you! My son!" he said coolly. "And how long have you known this, young sir?"
"Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used on that morning at Santon, when he had bidden me die and rot, were fresh in my memory--in my memory, not in his. I recalled his treachery to the Duchess, his pursuit of us, his departure with Anne, the words in which he had cursed me. He remembered apparently none of these things, but simply gazed at me with a thoughtful smile.
"I wish I had known it before," he said at last. "Things might have been different. A pretty dutiful son you have been!"
The sneer did me good. It recalled to my mind what Master Bertie had said.
"There can be no question of duty between us," I answered firmly. "What duty I owe to any one of my family, I owe to my uncle."
"Then why have you told me this?"
"Because I thought it right you should know it," I answered, "were it only that, knowing it, we may go different ways. We have nearly done one another a mischief more than once," I added gravely.