“Came over from Fort Good Faith,” said Rand, endeavoring to keep his voice steady, “to see your son. There’s a certain matter Mr. Carson, that I’d like to discuss with him. It’s important.”
“Yes, yes—” Carson removed his pipe and seemed to exhale the words with the smoke. “Reynold—” he trembled. “What—what has he done?”
The policeman placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“I—I hate to do this. I wish it wasn’t necessary to tell you. You—you understand my position. It’s hard for me—hard for all of us.”
Dick choked and turned away his head. His heart had gone out to this poor old man, and he just couldn’t look at him now. And then, too, there was the boy’s mother. Thinking about her— It was terrible! She mustn’t come into the room. She mustn’t hear what Rand was saying.
“It’s in connection with Dewberry’s murder. Indirectly your son is implicated. I—I—”
Carson shrank back in his chair, threw up his hands in front of his face and moaned in misery—in terror. Reynold, who had heard his name mentioned, and perceived his father thus afflicted, got unsteadily to his feet and came stumbling across the floor, glaring at Rand.
“What you doing to dad?” he demanded.
Carson sat up, endeavoring to get a better grip of himself. Almost fiercely he turned upon his son.
“Reynold, you’re in trouble. The police have come for you. What have you done? Speak up, boy; speak up! My God!—this will kill your mother.”