“Why, yes, of course.  Mrs. Musgrave was telling me she began the task,” said Charteris, and smiled a little.

“Unluckily; yes—­but—­well! in any event, it suggested to me that old letters are dangerous.  I really had no idea what that desk contained.  My father had preserved great stacks of letters.  I have been going through them.  They were most of them from women—­letters which should never have been written in the first place, and which he certainly had no right to keep.”

“What! and is ‘Wild Will’s’ love-correspondence still extant?  I fancy it made interesting reading, Rudolph.”

“There were some letters which in a measure concern you, Jack.”  The colonel handed him a small packet of letters.  “If you will read the top one it will explain.  I will just go on with my writing.”

He wrote steadily for a moment or two....  Then Charteris laughed musically.

“I have always known there was a love-affair between my mother and ’Wild Will.’  But I never suspected until to-night that I had the honor to be your half-brother, Rudolph—­one of ‘Wild Will’s’ innumerable bastards.”  Charteris was pallid, and though he seemed perfectly composed, his eyes glittered as with gusty brilliancies.  “I understand now why my reputed father always made such a difference between my sister and myself.  I never liked old Alvin Charteris, you know.  It is a distinct relief to be informed I have no share in his blood, although of course the knowledge comes a trifle suddenly.”

“Perhaps I should have kept that knowledge to myself.  I know it would have been kinder.  I had meant to be kind.  I loathe myself for dabbling in this mess.  But, in view of all things, it seemed necessary to let you know I am your own brother in the flesh, and that Patricia is your brother’s wife.”

“I see,” said Charteris.  “According to your standards that would make a great difference.  I don’t know, speaking frankly, that it makes much difference with me.”  He turned again to the bookshelves, so that Musgrave could no longer see his face.  Charteris ran his fingers caressingly over the backs of a row of volumes.  “I loved my mother, Rudolph.  I never loved anyone else.  That makes a difference.”  Then he said, “We Musgraves—­how patly I catalogue myself already!—­we Musgraves have a deal to answer for, Rudolph.”

“And doesn’t that make it all the more our duty to live clean and honest lives? to make the debt no greater than it is?” Both men were oddly quiet.

“Eh, I am not so sure.”  John Charteris waved airily toward Sebastian Musgrave’s counterfeit, then toward the other portraits.  “It was they who compounded our inheritances, Rudolph—­all that we were to have in this world of wit and strength and desire and endurance.  We know their histories.  They were proud, brave and thriftless, a greedy and lecherous race, who squeezed life dry as one does an orange, and left us the dregs.  I think that it is droll, but I am not sure it places us under any obligation.  In fact, I rather think God owes us an apology, Rudolph.”