“Succumbed? What do you mean? I know your heart is right, old fellow, and you did not do anything wrong intentionally.”
“Appearances were against me—I confess it. First—well, I was seen drunk. That is, I seemed to be drunk, but I swear to you that I had not taken but one drink, and that was not enough to knock out a ten-year-old boy. It was drugged, Frank—I know it!”
“Drugged? Who did such a villainous trick?”
“My enemy—a young fellow who loved Vida. He has a father who’s got the rocks. He’s older than I, and I thought him my friend. I met him at her home. His name is Hart Davis.”
“The whelp! But did Vida see you?”
“Yes. I had been out with Davis that night. In the morning I was found on the steps of Vida’s home, apparently dead drunk.”
“How came you there?”
“I didn’t know at the time. Since then—well, it is settled in my mind. Davis said I left him to go to the place where I was boarding in Carson City. He said I seemed to be all right when I left him, and so he let me go. He appeared very shocked to think such a misfortune had happened me: but—burn him!—I believe he gave me knock-out drops—I believe he carried me to that house—I believe he left me on the steps, where I was found!”
Frank’s eyes were blazing now, and the look on his expressive face told how he felt toward Mr. Hart Davis.
“And did Vida throw you over for that?” he asked, in an indignant manner.