"But," came the protest, delivered with much more spirit, "you know very well that he didn't do it!"

Burke shook his head emphatically in denial of the allegation.

"I don't know anything about it--yet," he contradicted.

The face of the magnate went white with fear.

"Inspector," he cried brokenly, "you--don't mean--"

Burke answered with entire candor.

"I mean, Mr. Gilder, that you've got to make him talk. That's what I want you to do, for all our sakes. Will you?"

"I'll do my best," the unhappy man replied, forlornly.

A minute later, d.i.c.k, in charge of an officer, was brought into the room. He was pale, a little disheveled from his hours in a cell. He still wore his evening clothes of the night before. His face showed clearly the deepened lines, graven by the suffering to which he had been subjected, but there was no weakness in his expression. Instead, a new force that love and sorrow had brought out in his character was plainly visible. The strength of his nature was springing to full life under the stimulus of the ordeal through which he was pa.s.sing.

The father went forward quickly, and caught d.i.c.k's hands in a mighty grip.

"My boy!" he murmured, huskily. Then, he made a great effort, and controlled his emotion to some extent. "The Inspector tells me," he went on, "that you've refused to talk--to answer his questions."

d.i.c.k, too, winced under the pain of this meeting with his father in a situation so sinister. But he was, to some degree, apathetic from over-much misery. Now, in reply to his father's words, he only nodded a quiet a.s.sent.

"That wasn't wise under the circ.u.mstances," the father remonstrated hurriedly. "However, now, Demarest and I are here to protect your interests, so that you can talk freely." He went on with a little catch of anxiety in his voice. "Now, d.i.c.k, tell us! Who killed that man? We must know. Tell me."

Burke broke in impatiently, with his bl.u.s.tering fashion of address.

"Where did you get----?"

But Demarest raised a restraining hand.

"Wait, please!" he admonished the Inspector. "You wait a bit." He went a step toward the young man. "Give the boy a chance," he said, and his voice was very friendly as he went on speaking. "d.i.c.k, I don't want to frighten you, but your position is really a dangerous one. Your only chance is to speak with perfect frankness. I pledge you my word, I'm telling the truth, d.i.c.k." There was profound concern in the lawyer's thin face, and his voice, trained to oratorical arts, was emotionally persuasive. "d.i.c.k, my boy, I want you to forget that I'm the District Attorney, and remember only that I'm an old friend of yours, and of your father's, who is trying very hard to help you. Surely, you can trust me.

Now, d.i.c.k, tell me: Who shot Griggs?"

There came a long pause. Burke's face was avid with desire for knowledge, with the keen expectancy of the hunter on the trail, which was characteristic of him in his professional work. The District Attorney himself was less vitally eager, but his curiosity, as well as his wish to escape from an embarra.s.sing situation, showed openly on his alert countenance. The heavy features of the father were twisting a little in nervous spasms, for to him this hour was all anguish, since his only son was in such horrible plight. d.i.c.k alone seemed almost tranquil, though the outward calm was belied by the flickering of his eyelids and the occasional involuntary movement of the lips. Finally he spoke, in a cold, weary voice.

"I shot Griggs," he said.

Demarest realized subtly that his plea had failed, but he made ar effort to resist the impression, to take the admission at its face value.

"Why?" he demanded.

d.i.c.k's answer came in the like unmeaning tones, and as wearily.

"Because I thought he was a burglar."

The District Attorney was beginning to feel his professional pride aroused against this young man who so flagrantly repelled his attempts to learn the truth concerning the crime that had been committed. He resorted to familiar artifices for entangling one questioned.

"Oh, I see!" he said, in a tone of conviction. "Now, let's go back a little. Burke says you told him last night that you had persuaded your wife to come over to the house, and join you there. Is that right?"

"Yes." The monosyllable was uttered indifferently. "And, while the two of you were talking," Demarest continued in a matter-of-fact manner. He did not conclude the sentence, but asked instead: "Now, tell me, d.i.c.k, just what did happen, won't you?"

There was no reply; and, after a little interval, the lawyer resumed his questioning.

"Did this burglar come into the room?"

d.i.c.k nodded an a.s.sent.

"And he attacked you?"

There came another nod of affirmation.

"And there was a struggle?"

"Yes," d.i.c.k said, and now there was resolution in his answer.

"And you shot him?" Demarest asked, smoothly.

"Yes," the young man said again.

"Then," the lawyer countered on the instant, "where did you get the revolver?"

d.i.c.k started to answer without thought:

"Why, I grabbed it----" Then, the significance of this crashed on his consciousness, and he checked the words trembling on his lips. His eyes, which had been downcast, lifted and glared on the questioner. "So," he said with swift hostility in his voice, "so, you're trying to trap me, too!" He shrugged his shoulders in a way he had learned abroad. "You!

And you talk of friendship. I want none of such friendship."

Demarest, greatly disconcerted, was skilled, nevertheless, in dissembling, and he hid his chagrin perfectly. There was only reproach in his voice as he answered stoutly:

"I am your friend, d.i.c.k."

But Burke would be no longer restrained. He had listened with increasing impatience to the diplomatic efforts of the District Attorney, which had ended in total rout. Now, he insisted on employing his own more drastic, and, as he believed, more efficacious, methods. He stood up, and spoke in his most threatening manner.

"You don't want to take us for fools, young man," he said, and his big tones rumbled harshly through the room. "If you shot Griggs in mistake for a burglar, why did you try to hide the fact? Why did you pretend to me that you and your wife were alone in the room--when you had _that_ there with you, eh? Why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you call for the police, as any honest man would naturally under such circ.u.mstances?"

The arraignment was severely logical. d.i.c.k showed his appreciation of the justice of it in the whitening of his face, nor did he try to answer the charges thus hurled at him.

The father, too, appreciated the gravity of the situation. His face was working, as if toward tears.

"We're trying to save you," he pleaded, tremulously.

Burke persisted in his vehement system of attack. Now, he again brought out the weapon that had done Eddie Griggs to death.

"Where'd you get this gun?" he shouted.

d.i.c.k held his tranquil pose.

"I won't talk any more," he answered, simply. "I must see my wife first." His voice became more aggressive. "I want to know what you've done to her."