Delaney, who fancied he knew more of the world than his half-brother, suspected that any man who was willing to risk his whole future for some strumpet off the stage was probably much less virtuous and a deal more interesting that Ridley was suggesting, and Delaney, in his long drunken meal with Starbuck, had sensed something complicated and interesting in the younger man. Starbuck, Delaney reflected, had immured himself in a dark maze where creatures like Dominique Demarest fought against the virtues instilled by a Calvinist upbringing, and that battle would be a rare and vicious affair. Delaney instinctively hoped that the Calvinism would be defeated, but he also understood that the virtuous aspect of Starbuck’s character had somehow got under his half-brother’s skin. “Why do we find virtue so annoying?” Delaney wondered aloud.

“Because it is the highest aspiration of the stupid,” Ridley said nastily.

“Or is it because we admire virtue in others, knowing we cannot attain it ourselves?” Delaney was still curious.

“You might want to attain it, I don’t.”

“Don’t be absurd, Ethan. And tell me why you dislike Starbuck so much.”

“Because the bastard took fifty bucks off me.”

“Ah! Then he did touch you to the quick.” Delaney, who knew the extent of his half-brother’s greed, laughed. “And how did the preacher’s son achieve this appropriation?”

“I wagered him that he couldn’t fetch a man called Truslow out of the hills, and goddamn it, he did.”

“Pecker told me about Truslow,” Delaney said. “But why didn’t you recruit him?”

“Because if Truslow sees me near his daughter, he’ll murder me.”

“Ah!” Delaney smiled, and reflected how everyone created their own tangled snares. Starbuck was enmeshed between sin and pleasure, he himself was caught between North and South, and his half-brother was snagged on lust. “Does the murderer have cause to kill you?” Delaney asked, then took a cigarette from a box and borrowed his half-brother’s cigar to light it. The cigarette was wrapped in yellow paper and filled with lemon-scented tobacco. “Well?” Delaney prompted Ridley.

“He has cause,” Ridley admitted, then could not resist a boastful laugh. “He’s going to have a bastard grandchild soon.”

“Yours?”

Ridley nodded. “Truslow doesn’t know the baby’s mine, and the girl’s been married off anyway, so all in all I came out smelling like rosewater. Except that I had to pay for the bitch’s silence.”

“A lot?”

“Enough.” Ridley inhaled his cigar’s bitter smoke, then shook his head. “She’s a greedy bitch, but my God, Bev, you should see the girl.”

“The murderer’s daughter is beautiful?” Delaney was amused at the thought.

“She’s extraordinary,” Ridley said with a genuine tone of awe in his voice. “Here, look.” He took a leather case from his top uniform pocket and handed it to Delaney.