“You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?”

The ‘Bishop’ lied:  “Yes—­I did.”

“And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?”

The ‘Bishop’ lied:  “Yes—­I did.”

“The devil takes care of his own,” said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room.

“Not always,” said the ‘Bishop,’ thinking of Dick.

“Well, sir,” continued the parson, “I’m told that money can work miracles in this country.  And, by God! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret.”

“All right,” said the ‘Bishop.’  “I—­er—­I don’t blame you.  I think you’re behaving with great moderation.”

“Moderation!  Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?”

“The Lord forbid!” ejaculated Crisp.

“Men have been shot for less than this.”

“There’s a pistol in that drawer,” said the ‘Bishop’ wearily.  “You can shoot if you want to.  Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if—­if you use that pistol.”

Mr. Carteret stared.  The ‘Bishop’ was beginning to puzzle him.  He stared still harder, and the ‘Bishop’ blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of.  Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

“Will you kindly send for my—­for your partner?” he said suddenly.  “Please sit or stand where you are.  I think you’ll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way.”

Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the ‘Bishop,’ facing the flaming blue eyes of his father.  Then Mr. Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the same answers, the ‘Bishop’ entering an inarticulate demurrer.

“It appears,” said Mr. Carteret, “that there are two ways of telling this story.  One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied.  I confess,” he added dryly, “that my sympathies are with the liar.  He is the honester man.”

“Yes,” said Dick.  “I’m about as big a blackguard as you’ll find anywhere, but I’m your son all the same.  Father—­forgive me.”

One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly fashion.  He knew that whining wouldn’t avail him, or any puling hypocrisy.  So he told the truth.

“Is that what you want?” said the father sarcastically.  “Only that:  my forgiveness and my blessing?”

Dick’s bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

“The man who drove me here,” continued the father, “told me a curious story.  It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness.  Not a word, sir.  It’s an open secret.  For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company.  Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?”