“And how long will he remain?”
Brick hesitated an instant.
“My parents intend to stay in the south of France until spring,” he replied. “My mother’s health is poor. My father took her abroad to avoid cold weather.”
“And you were left at college in New York,” added Bogle, “in care of a lawyer, who acts as a sort of guardian. What brought you to Maine at this time of year?”
“I won’t answer that,” replied Brick, sullenly.
Bogle’s eyes flashed. He made a threatening move forward. But a glance from Raikes checked him.
“If the answer was of any importance, I’d soon find a way to open your lips,” he said, coolly. “Now sit down at that table and take the pen. You must write two letters—one to your father, the other to this lawyer, Frederick Glendale, whose address you know. I will dictate them. Do you understand?”
A light broke suddenly on Brick’s bewildered mind. He saw now why he had been brought to this lonely place. His blood fairly boiled with indignation. He faced Bogle with flashing eyes.
“You may keep me here for a lifetime,” he cried, angrily, “but I won’t write a line.”