Don't lose your nerve. You'll go through with
flying colors. When a man has done nothing wrong he needn't be afraid."
"I dare say you're right," agreed Bromfield miserably.
The trouble was that Whitford was arguing from false premises. He was
assuming that Clarendon was an innocent man, whereas the clubman knew
just how guilty he was. Back of the killing lay a conspiracy which
might come to light during the investigation. He dared not face the
police. His conscience was not clean enough.
"Of course Dad's right. It's the only way to save your reputation,"
Beatrice cried. "I'm not going to leave you till you promise to go
straight down there to headquarters. If you don't you'll be smirched
for life--and you'd be doing something absolutely dishonorable."
He came to time with a heart of heavy dread. "All right, Bee. I'll
go," he promised. "It's an awful mess, but I've got to go through with
it, I suppose."
"Of course you have," she said with complete conviction. "You're not a
quitter, and you can't hide here like a criminal."
"We'll have to be moving, Bee," her father reminded her. "You know we
have an appointment to meet the district attorney."
Beatrice nodded. With a queer feeling of repulsion she patted her
fiance's cheek with her soft hand and whispered a word of comfort to
him.
"Buck up, old boy. It won't be half as bad as you think. Nobody is
going to blame you."
They were shown out by the valet.
"You don't want to be hard on Bromfield, honey," Whitford told his
daughter after they had reentered their car.
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