“Why, I grabbed it——” Then, the significance of this crashed on his consciousness, and he checked the words trembling on his lips. His eyes, which had been downcast, lifted and glared on the questioner. “So,” he said with swift hostility in his voice, “so, you're trying to trap me, too!” He shrugged his shoulders in a way he had learned abroad. “You! And you talk of friendship. I want none of such friendship.”
Demarest, greatly disconcerted, was skilled, nevertheless, in dissembling, and he hid his chagrin perfectly. There was only reproach in his voice as he answered stoutly:
“I am your friend, Dick.”
But Burke would be no longer restrained. He had listened with increasing impatience to the diplomatic efforts of the District Attorney, which had ended in total rout. Now, he insisted on employing his own more drastic, and, as he believed, more efficacious, methods. He stood up, and spoke in his most threatening manner.
“You don't want to take us for fools, young man,” he said, and his big tones rumbled harshly through the room. “If you shot Griggs in mistake for a burglar, why did you try to hide the fact? Why did you pretend to me that you and your wife were alone in the room—when you had that there with you, eh? Why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you call for the police, as any honest man would naturally under such circumstances?”
The arraignment was severely logical. Dick showed his appreciation of the justice of it in the whitening of his face, nor did he try to answer the charges thus hurled at him.
The father, too, appreciated the gravity of the situation. His face was working, as if toward tears.
“We're trying to save you,” he pleaded, tremulously.
Burke persisted in his vehement system of attack. Now, he again brought out the weapon that had done Eddie Griggs to death.
“Where'd you get this gun?” he shouted.