"He tells me point-blank that he can't and he won't. I asked him."
Mr. Dare turned impetuously to the room where he had left his second son—his eldest son now. "Here, Herbert"—he was beginning. But the officer cut short the words by drawing him back.
"Don't go and make matters worse," whispered he: "perhaps they'll be bad enough without it. Now, Lawyer Dare, you'll do well not to turn obstinate, for I am giving you a bit of friendly advice. You and I have had many a transaction together, and I don't mind going a bit out of my way for you, as I wouldn't do for other people. The worst thing your son could do, would be to say before those chattering servants that he can't or won't tell where he has been all night, or half the night. It would be self-condemnation at once. Ask him in private, if you must ask him."
Mr. Dare called his son to him, and Herbert answered to it. A policeman was sauntering after him, but the sergeant gave him a nod, and the man went back.
"Herbert, you say you did not come in until near two this morning."
"Neither did I. It wanted about twenty minutes to it. The churches struck half-past one as I came through the town."
"Where did you stay?"
"Well—I can't say," replied Herbert.
Mr. Dare grew agitated. "You must say, Herbert," he hoarsely whispered, "or take the consequences."
"I can't help the consequences," was Herbert's answer. "Where I was last night is no matter to any one, and I shall not say."