I heard him come in and speak to his servant. Then he came straight up,
humming _"la donna e mobile,"_ and walked in with just the jaunty, airy
manner I remembered. He was in evening dress, and very little changed.
He seemed much surprised to see me, and turned very white.

"Well, my Apollo of the T square, _pourquoi cet honneur?_ Have you come,
like a dutiful nephew, to humble yourself and beg for forgiveness?"

I forgot all I meant to say (indeed, nothing happened as I had meant),
but rose and said, "I have come to have a talk with you," as quietly as
I could, though with a thick voice.

He seemed uneasy, and went towards the door.

I got there before him, and closed it, and locked it, and put the key
in my pocket.

He darted to the other door and found it locked.

Then he went to the mantel-piece and looked for the creese, and not
finding it, he turned round with his back to the fireplace and his arms
akimbo, and tried to look very contemptuous and determined. His chin was
quite white under his dyed mustache--like wax--and his eyes blinked
nervously.

I walked up to him and said: "You told Mrs. Deane that I was your
natural son."

"It's a lie! Who told you so?"