“Here are the papers, father,” she began, and when he looked up from his book and shook his head in refusal, she went on quickly: “You needn’t be afraid to read them; Will’s name isn’t mentioned.”
The judge took the papers and scanned them with interest newly aroused. The fine old face of the master of Hollywood, with its heavy white mustache and pointed goatee, was military rather than judicial, and Dorothy was joyed to see the lines of stern sorrow soften a little as he read.
“You are right,” he said, after he had scanned the list of the incriminated ones. “Let us thank God that we are spared so much. But I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps Will gave an assumed name,” Dorothy suggested.
“And so added a lie to his other misdoings?” rejoined the father bitterly. “No, he didn’t do that. I saw the record at the police station.”
Dorothy was puzzled for a moment, and then a light broke in upon her.
“I think I know how it happened,” she said, and then she gave him a brief summary of the talk with Brant on the veranda.
The judge heard her through, and being in nowise less shrewd because he happened to be his daughter’s father, he was at no loss to account for Brant’s motive. Nevertheless, he did not forget to be grateful, and he gave the helpful one his just meed of praise.
“It was a thoughtful thing to do, and the man who would think of it at such a time must know how it grinds to have a good old name dragged in the mire,” he said warmly. “I shall remember it. Was Mr. Brant with Will when he came home?”
“I couldn’t tell. I saw the carriage drive up, and saw Will stop to speak to some one inside after he got out. Then he came up the walk alone, and the carriage went back toward the boulevard.”