“Hush, old girl! we must not think it of him aloud. We must get him off, but I’m very much afraid.”
“Oh, Jo-si-ah, don’t say it, dear.”
“Only to you, my gal. I’m afraid the poor old fellow was trying to—well, say borrow a few diamonds, and what happened afterwards was an accident.”
“Oh, my dear! my dear!”
“It looks sadly like it.”
“But this Fred Denville says he did it.”
“Yes, poor lad, to get clear of his officers, and to save his father’s life. That will go for nothing. Soldiers often charge themselves with crimes to get out of the army. That story will never be believed.”
Morton Denville shivered as he approached the prison, and felt half disposed to turn back as he encountered a couple of men of his regiment; but he mastered his nervousness and walked boldly up to the gate and was admitted.
He found his father in much the same despondent attitude as he had occupied when Fred Denville came to the prison, and Morton stood with his lip quivering and breast heaving, looking down for some minutes at the wasted form.
“Father,” he said at last, but there was no reply, and when the lad went and laid a hand upon his shoulder, the old man did not start, but raised his head in a dazed manner, as if he did not quite realise who it was.