The father intervened with a piteous eagerness.
“Dick, if you know who killed this man, you must speak to protect yourself.”
Burke's voice came viciously.
“The gun was found on you. Don't forget that.”
“You don't seem to realize the position you're in,” the father insisted, despairingly. “Think of me, Dick, my boy. If you won't speak for your own sake, do it for mine.”
The face of the young man softened as he met his father's beseeching eyes.
“I'm sorry, Dad,” he said, very gently. “But I—well, I can't!”
Again, Burke interposed. His busy brain was working out a new scheme for solving this irritating problem.
“I'm going to give him a little more time to think things over,” he said, curtly. He went back to his chair. “Perhaps he'll get to understand the importance of what we've been saying pretty soon.” He scowled at Dick. “Now, young man,” he went on briskly, “you want to do a lot of quick thinking, and a lot of honest thinking, and, when you're ready to tell the truth, let me know.”
He pressed the button on his desk, and, as the doorman appeared, addressed that functionary.