"Where did he die?" asked Dick.
"In the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary." The man got up and shuffled away. As he went out of the room, he held out his hand, and there was the chink of coin.
"My father dead!"
"Ay, lad, he's dead. What better for you and everybody? I've seen him, on and off, most days. He was a hardened sinner, if ever there was one."
"Dead! I have been taught to regard him with a kind of loathing; but—we can only have one father. Dead! In a workhouse infirmary!"
"He has left two sons. You are not the only one."
"Two sons. Yes"—concerning his half-brother Dick could not choose but speak vindictively—"the other will hear to-morrow who his father was. He shall hear also that his father is dead. He and I will be the mourners at the pauper's funeral."