“O John!” cries Dorothy, taking his words for open confession and defiance.
“My son, explain this thing,” says the operator, again resting his weight on the table.
“My dear father, be calm. You do not see me at all excited. I am entirely innocent of this charge, and can afford to laugh at it as a good joke. I assure you solemnly, there is nothing to fear,” the young man says, disturbed by the visible agitation of those who are near and dear to him.
As for Rocket, he merely humps his shoulders, and keeps both hands behind him under the spiked tails of his dress coat. His manner is in a measure contemptuous, for he believes in his case, and that the young man simply plays such a bold game as would be natural to one who had succeeded in making a clever haul of fifty thousand.
Turning upon the sheriff, John asks:
“Will you answer a few questions, sir?”
“Oh, yes! provided I can do so in the line of professional duty,” drawls the deep bass.
“Thank you, sir. Tell me first of all the name of the defaulter.”
“Cheerfully—John Cereal, known in Denver as John Phœnix.”
Again the two near by utter moans of grief, but John, who has more at stake than anyone else—John, who is thus boldly accused of a terrible crime—simply smiles and nods.