William did neither. From long practice in presenting his own case at home in the most favourable light the young man was blankly unable to tell a straightforward story in plain words, though for this once his will to do it was good. But what he did tell put his father in possession of a fairly consistent series of facts. On the day before the tragedy the boy had met Harding and had become his guest at a hotel. There had been liquor and cards, he admitted—so much of the former that he had been afraid to come home. That was all.
“And how did you come to be in this place last night?”
“Harding took me there. He said it was a gentlemen’s club.”
“Didn’t you know it was a gambling house?”
The boy hung his head. “I—I guessed it was—after we got in.”
“Well, go on.”
“We went upstairs and began to play cards. Harding won everything I had, and then—” He stopped, but the lash of his father’s command struck him smartly.
“Tell it all. What then?”
“Then he got me to put my promise to get some papers away from Mr. Brant up against all the money on the table. I thought he was just joking, y’know, and I did it—and he won.”
The judge groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. “It wasn’t enough for you to be a knave; you must be a fool as well. Go on.”