He bent forward, gripping the arms of the chair, fixing Sylvester with an inscrutable gaze, his lips beneath the scrubby white moustache parted and showing his yellow stumps of teeth.
“Your brother. Don't you understand?”
“What idiocy are you talking?” exclaimed Sylvester, in angry impatience.
“I am talking the truth, my young friend. I am a truthful man,” replied Usher, with mocking resumption of his usual habit of speech. “Roderick is your own dear brother.”
“You accuse my father of having an illegitimate son?”
“Oh, no. Roderick is quite legitimate. He is my son. At least, I quite believed your poor mother.”
“My mother—what the devil are you talking about?” cried Sylvester, fiercely. “What has my mother got to do with it?”
“Roderick is her son, my dear Sylvester. Hers and mine. She was my wife.”
Sylvester glared at him for a moment, and then, the preposterous absurdity of the story dawning upon him, he broke into a contemptuous laugh and turned away. The man was mad.
“I think it time we parted,” said Sylvester. Ushers face expressed pained surprise.