Slowly Hathaway raised his head.
"I have no statement to make," he persisted.
"This is rank folly," exclaimed O'Gorman, "but if you refuse to make the statement, I shall make it myself."
"I beg you—I implore you!" said Hathaway pleadingly.
The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man but at the young girl—Mary Louise.
"Tell me, my child," he said gently, "would you not rather see your grandfather—an honorable, high-minded gentleman—acquitted of an unjust accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heart-aches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace in order to shield you from so slight an affliction?"
"Sir!" cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet; "how dare you throw the burden on this poor child? Have you no mercy—no compassion?"
"Plenty," was the quiet reply. "Sit down, sir. This girl is stronger than you think. She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the truth, I assure you."
Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear. Then he turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if to shield her.
Said Irene, speaking very slowly: