"You don’t mean to say you think——" Rupert flared up, then stopped. Five hundred pounds! The significance of the amount suddenly struck him. The amount Ruby Strode had won for him over Ambuscade. Once again he saw himself sitting in his rooms in Westminster facing ruin; he saw himself take his revolver from the drawer and hold it to his breast. Then he felt the arms of the woman he loved round him; he heard her voice telling him it was a coward’s way. And when he told her it was the only way, she confessed that she had secretly backed the outsider and won him five hundred pounds. He began to tremble. His body became wet with perspiration. He heard his father’s voice raised apprehensively. "Rupert, my boy. Speak, for God’s sake, speak! Say you know nothing about it." Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his father. He did not see him; he only saw the face of the woman he loved. She had confessed she loved him better than life itself. "Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising. "Speak!" "Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed. "Confess that you are either guilty—or not guilty." CHAPTER V. THE ACCUSATION. Rupert pulled himself together and looked at Sir Reginald. "I have nothing to say, sir." "Nothing to say!" Clenching his fists Dale strode towards his son as if intending to strike him. With a gesture Sir Reginald stopped the old man and waved him back. "Gently, gently! You must keep calm, Mr. Dale. I am sure, on consideration, your son will see the advisability of making a clean breast of this affair." Old John Dale controlled himself and stood quite still, folding his arms across his chest. Until now he had scarcely taken his eyes off his son’s face. He was afraid to look any longer lest instead of the boy he had loved and for whom he had worked and made so many sacrifices—he saw a thief, a criminal. There followed a silence. To each man present it seemed interminably long, but neither father nor son dared break it. They were standing almost opposite one another. The younger man held himself very erect, his head thrown back; he was looking straight at Sir Reginald Crichton, resentment in his eyes. Sir Reginald, seated at his bureau, was obviously embarrassed and ill at ease. Judging from appearances their positions should have been reversed. "Come, won’t you speak?" the latter said in a more kindly voice. "For your father’s sake, Mr. Rupert, and your sister’s—as well as for your own." "I have told you I have nothing more to say. I know nothing about it." Sir Reginald raised his eyebrows, and picking up a pencil commenced to tap it thoughtfully on the edge of the bureau. There was another long silence. Twice Dale tried to speak and failed. His great frame was shaken. He took a couple of steps towards his son and laid a hand on his shoulder.