Burke, despite his quality of heaviness, was blest with a keen sense of humor, against which at times his professional labors strove mutinously.In the present instance, he had failed utterly to obtain any information of value from the girl whom he had just been examining.On the contrary, he had been befooled outrageously by a female criminal, in a manner to wound deeply his professional pride.Nevertheless, he bore no grudge against the adventuress.His sense of the absurd served him well, and he took a lively enjoyment in recalling the method by which her plausible wiles had beguiled him.He gave her a real respect for the adroitness with which she had deceived him--and he was not one to be readily deceived.So, now, as the scornful maiden went out of the door under the escort of Cassidy, Burke bowed gallantly to her lithe back, and blew a kiss from his thick fingertips, in mocking reverence for her as an artist in her way.
Then, he seated himself, pressed the desk call-button, and, when he had learned that Edward Gilder was arrived, ordered that the magnate and the District Attorney be admitted, and that the son, also, be sent up from his cell.
"It's a bad business, sir," Burke said, with hearty sympathy, to the shaken father, after the formal greetings that followed the entrance of the two men."It's a very bad business.""What does he say?" Gilder questioned.There was something pitiful in the distress of this man, usually so strong and so certain of his course.Now, he was hesitant in his movements, and his mellow voice came more weakly than its wont.There was a pathetic pleading in the dulled eyes with which he regarded the Inspector.
"Nothing!" Burke answered."That's why I sent for you.Isuppose Mr.Demarest has made the situation plain to you."Gilder nodded, his face miserable.
"Yes," he has explained it to me," he said in a lifeless voice.
"It's a terrible position for my boy.But you'll release him at once, won't you?" Though he strove to put confidence into his words, his painful doubt was manifest.
"I can't," Burke replied, reluctantly, but bluntly."You ought not to expect it, Mr.Gilder.""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, ****, 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 passing.
The father went forward quickly, and caught ****'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."****, 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 assent.
"That wasn't wise under the circumstances," 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, ****, tell us! Who killed that man? We must know.Tell me."Burke broke in impatiently, with his blustering 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.
"****, 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, ****."There was profound concern in the lawyer's thin face, and his voice, trained to oratorical arts, was emotionally persuasive.
"****, 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, ****, 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 embarrassing 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.**** 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.
****'s answer came in the like unmeaning tones, and as wearily.
"Because I thought he was a burglar."
