There was another long silence. Twice Dale tried to speak and failed. His great frame was shaken. He took a couple of steps towards his son and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I know you didn't do it, my boy," he said in a voice that was no longer under control. "Maybe, you're ashamed of yourself for having lost it; or, more like, you had it stolen, and perhaps you have a feeling you might be able to point out the thief, only you don't like to speak for fear of making a mistake.... Unjust accusation...." His voice faltered. "I know you're innocent, Rupert, thank God, I know that."
Rupert turned his head and looked at his father for one moment. For the first time in his life he saw tears in the old man's eyes. He turned his back on him as the blood rushed to his face. It was almost more than he could bear.
Of course, he was innocent, and it was impossible to conceive anyone, least of all his father, believing him guilty of such a mean and dastardly trick. A crime worse than theft or robbery.
He experienced a revulsion of feeling. He knew if he had spoken out at once and confessed exactly what had happened the morning he had received the cheque, both Sir Reginald and his father would have believed him. But, in spite of the brave words old Dale had just spoken, and in spite of Sir Reginald's patience, Rupert knew that already they mistrusted him. At the back of the heart of one was suspicion amounting perhaps to certainty. At the back of the heart of the other was fear.
"Do you believe I altered the amount on the cheque?" he asked Sir Reginald.
"I have asked you what you know about it. Until you give me a direct reply I must naturally suspend judgment. I should certainly find it very hard to believe you guilty of such a crime."
"It was I who sent for you," Dale whispered, "directly Sir Reginald told me what had happened and showed me the cheque."
Rupert looked from one man to the other. There was fear in his heart, too. A nameless fear. He had only to say outright what he knew about the matter, tell them exactly what had occurred the day he received his father's letter containing the cheque, and they would believe him.
They would believe him, but their suspicions would naturally be shifted to another quarter. He would have to confess that he had been in debt, that he had gone to the races, that he had won a large sum of money, exactly five hundred pounds—exactly the amount to which the cheque he had just seen had been altered.