He was long in reading, as though the writing presented difficulties, and his two companions watched him the while, and waited.

At last he turned the paper over, and examined seal and superscription as if suspicious that he held a forgery.
But in some subtle, mysterious way--that voice of the blood perchance to which Crispin had alluded--he felt conviction stealing down upon his soul.

Mechanically he moved across to the table, and sat down.

Without a word, and still holding the crumpled letter in his clenched hand, he set his elbows on the table, and, pressing his temples to his palms, he sat there dumb.

Within him a very volcano raged, and its fires were fed with loathing--loathing for this man whom he had ever hated, yet never as he hated him now, knowing him to be his father.