There came a long pause. Burke's face was avid with desire for knowledge, with the keen expectancy of the hunter on the trail, which was characteristic of him in his professional work. The District Attorney himself was less vitally eager, but his curiosity, as well as his wish to escape from an embarrassing situation, showed openly on his alert countenance. The heavy features of the father were twisting a little in nervous spasms, for to him this hour was all anguish, since his only son was in such horrible plight. Dick alone seemed almost tranquil, though the outward calm was belied by the flickering of his eyelids and the occasional involuntary movement of the lips. Finally he spoke, in a cold, weary voice.
“I shot Griggs,” he said.
Demarest realized subtly that his plea had failed, but he made ar effort to resist the impression, to take the admission at its face value.
“Why?” he demanded.
Dick's answer came in the like unmeaning tones, and as wearily.
“Because I thought he was a burglar.”
The District Attorney was beginning to feel his professional pride aroused against this young man who so flagrantly repelled his attempts to learn the truth concerning the crime that had been committed. He resorted to familiar artifices for entangling one questioned.
“Oh, I see!” he said, in a tone of conviction. “Now, let's go back a little. Burke says you told him last night that you had persuaded your wife to come over to the house, and join you there. Is that right?”
“Yes.” The monosyllable was uttered indifferently. “And, while the two of you were talking,” Demarest continued in a matter-of-fact manner. He did not conclude the sentence, but asked instead: “Now, tell me, Dick, just what did happen, won't you?”
There was no reply; and, after a little interval, the lawyer resumed his questioning.