“Dad,” she said, “I do believe he is innocent. He wouldn't say so—though goodness knows I tried to make him 'fess up!”
For the first time her father smiled.
“I know what a persistent little baggage you are, and I feel it in my heart to be sorry for young Wade if you nagged him.”
“I didn't. I just asked him.”
“All right. I understand. I am quite familiar with your way of—asking. Well—what was the result?”
“I—oh—I don't know. 'Are you really guilty?' I asked him, and he said: 'Yes.' And then I repeated my question once—perhaps twice …”
“Call it seventeen times,” dryly from her father.
“And, finally, in a sort of desperation …”
“Which I personally can well appreciate—”
“He said: 'If you do not believe me, ask my father and my older brother.' Now, isn't that queer?”
“What's queer about it?”
“Why—if I asked his own father, his own brother, they would naturally defend him; wouldn't they? They'd swear up and down that he's innocent—of course! So why does he want me to ask them?”
“Something to that,” grumbled Mr. Warburton; and, suddenly, she put her arms about his neck.
“You and I are pals, aren't we, dad?”
“You bet, little daughter.”
“You wouldn't want me to hide anything from you, would you?”
“Sure not.”
“Well—I am fond of Hector! Very, very fond!”
He flared up.
