"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.
Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."
"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.
"And I found my son, John Flint!"
Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he grew cowardly desperate.
"You found a thief, sir—a miserable thief."
We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that light.
"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom you persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he must be released."
"Must be, Mr. Walters!"