Without one word to his son, and with no outstretching of the hand, he turned towards the library and entered by the open window, Gabriel following him. John Strong locked the door with the composure of a man sure of his own cause.
Father and son faced each other in the silent room. The antique clock measured the moments with unhurried hand. John Strong was the first to open the debate.
“A nice muddle you have made of life,” was his magnanimous decree.
Gabriel, leaning against the carved pillar of the mantel-shelf, regarded his father with a melancholy smile.
“So you believe these lies,” he said, with a twinge of scorn.
John Strong retreated to the library chair before his escritoire and fingered a quill.
“Let me tell you,” he began, “that you have acted like a scoundrel and a blackguard. Son of mine that you are, the evidence of your guilt is overwhelming. What can you plead to lessen you dishonor?”
“That there is no truth in these allusions.”
“Pah! Am I a fool?”
“Has God made you a judge to read truth or evil in the hearts of others?”