"That's a gambling-house," said the policeman in uniform, when I pointed out the door where the man entered.
"Undoubtedly it is a gambling-house," replied the detective, gazing inquiringly at me, as though he was not quite satisfied with the story related to him by Mr. Rockwood; "but even a gambling-house has certain rights, which may not be disturbed without proper cause."
"Proper cause!" exclaimed Mr. Rockwood. "Don't I tell you that this young man has been robbed and abused by the villains in this house?"
"You will excuse me, sir, but it is possible to be mistaken. If I understand you, Mr. Rockwood, you met this boy for the first time about two hours ago."
"But I have entire confidence in him. He is the son of Edward Farringford."
"Perhaps he is, though I do not believe it; but that is nothing to recommend him. His story is absurd on the face of it."
"My story is true, sir, every word of it," I interposed, indignantly.
Mr. Bogart, the detective, asked me a few questions in regard to my escape from the building, and I repeated all the particulars. He shook his head, and declared that he was unwilling to enter the house upon the strength of such a story. It would damage his reputation as an officer, and his superiors would not justify the measure.
"I'll tell you what I will do," he continued.
"Well, what will you do?" demanded Mr. Rockwood, impatiently.