“Believe what?”
“That—I’m—a—a spy and—and a traitor.” He almost whispered the words.
Mr. Conne smiled exasperatingly and hit him a rap on the shoulder. “Anybody accuse you of being that?”
“That’s what they think,” said Tom.
“Oh, no, they don’t, Tommy. But they’ve got to be careful. Don’t you know they have?”
“I got to go and—get shot—maybe.”
“So? Fancy that! Sit down here and tell me the whole business, Tommy. What’s it all about?”
“I—got to admit it looks bad——”
“They wouldn’t have done anything with you till they saw me, Tommy. Even if they had to take you back to New York. Trouble was, Wessel’s dying. How could they prove what you said about me getting you the job?”
He put his arm over Tom’s shoulder as they sat down upon the leather settee, and the effect of all the dread and humiliation and injustice and shame welled up in the boy now under that friendly touch and he went to pieces entirely.