The game was played and lost. All realized it, and none so keenly as Hortensia, who found it in her gentle heart to pity the woman who had never shown her a kindness.  
She set a hand upon her lover's arm. “What will you do, Justin?” she inquired in tones that seemed to plead for mercy for those others; for she had not paused to think—as another might have thought—that there was no mercy he could show them.
 
Rotherby and his mother stood hand in hand; it was the woman who had clutched at her son for comfort and support in this bitter hour of retribution, this hour of the upon themselves of all the evil they had plotted.
 
Mr. Caryll considered them a moment, his face a mask, his mind detached. They interested him profoundly. This of two natures that in themselves were and cruel was a process very to observe. He tried to what they felt, what thoughts they might be harboring. And it seemed to him that a sort of had fallen on their wits. They were under the shock of the blow he had dealt them. Anon there would be railings and to spare—against him, against themselves, against the dead man above stairs, against Fate, and more besides. For the present there was this , almost calm.
 
Presently the woman stirred. Instinct—the instinct of the stricken beast to creep to hiding—moved her, while reason was still bound in lethargy. She moved to step, drawing at her son's hand. “Come, Charles,” she said, in a low, voice. “Come!”
 
The touch and the speech him to life. “No!” he cried harshly, and shook his hand free of hers. “It ends not thus.”
 
He looked almost as he would fling himself upon his brother, his figure now, and menacing; his face , his eyes wild. “It ends not thus!” he repeated, and his voice rang .
 
“No,” Mr. Caryll agreed quietly. “It ends not thus.”
 
He looked sadly from son to mother. “It had not even begun thus, but that you would have it so. You would have it. I sought to move you to mercy. I reminded you, my brother, of the tie that bound us, and I would have turned you from fratricide, I would have saved you from the crime you meditated—for it was a crime.”
 
“Fratricide!” exclaimed Rotherby, and laughed angrily. “Fratricide!” It was as if he threatened it.
 
But Mr. Caryll continued to regard him sorrowfully. From his soul he pitied him; pitied them both—not because of their condition, but because of the soullessness behind it all. To him it was truly , tragic beyond anything that he had ever known.
 
“You said some fine things, sir, to Mr. Templeton of your regard for your father's memory,” said Mr. Caryll. “You expressed some lofty sentiments of filial , which almost sounded true—which sounded true, indeed, to Mr. Templeton. It was out of interest for your father that you pleaded for the suppression of his dealings with the South Sea Company; not for a moment did you consider yourself or the profit you should make from such suppression.”
 
“Why this?” demanded the mother fiercely. “Do you rally us? Do you turn the sword in the wound now that you have us at your mercy—now that we are fallen?”
 
“From what are you fallen?” Mr. Caryll inquired. “Ah, but let that pass. I do not rally, madam. Mockery is far indeed from my intention.” He turned again to Rotherby. “Lord Ostermore was a father to you, which he never was to me—knew not that he was. The sentiments you so beautifully expressed to Mr. Templeton are the sentiments that actuate me now, though I shall make no attempt to express them. It is not that my heart stirs much where my Lord Ostermore is concerned. And yet, for the sake of the name that is mine now, I shall leave England as I came—Mr. Justin Caryll, neither more nor less.
 
“In the eyes of the world there is no upon my mother's name, because her history—her supposed history—was unknown. See that none ever falls on it, else shall you find me pitiless indeed. See that none ever falls on it, or I shall return and drive home the lesson that, like Antinous, you've learnt—that 'twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow'—and turn you, naked upon a contemptuous world. Needs more be said? You understand, I think.”
 
Rotherby understood nothing. But his mother's keener wits began to perceive a of the truth. “Do you mean that—that we are to—to remain in the station that we believed our own?”
 
“What else?”
 
She stared at him. Here was a so weak, it seemed to her, as almost to provoke her scorn. “You will leave your brother in possession of the title and what else there may be?”
 
“You think me generous, madam,” said he. “Do not misapprehend me. I am not. I neither the title nor estates of Ostermore. Their possession would be a thorn in my flesh, a thorn of bitter memory. That is one reason why you should not think me generous, though it is not the reason why I them. I would have you understand me on this, perhaps the last time, that we may meet.
 
“Lord Ostermore, my father, married you, madam, in good faith.”
 
She interrupted harshly. “What is't you say?” she almost screamed, quivering with rage at the very thought of what her dead lord had done.
 
“He married you in good faith,” Mr. Caryll repeated quietly, impressively. “I will make it plain to you. He married you believing that the girl-wife he had left in France was dead. For fear it should come to his father's knowledge, he kept that marriage secret from all. He durst not own his marriage to his father.”
 
“He was not—as you may have appreciated i............