Clarke was wanted. The bishop took advantage of
the interruption to order his carriage and make his adieus.
"You may be assured," he said at parting, "that I shall not allow this
matter to rest until the offenders are brought to justice. Good-by,
good-by, my little man. Bear in mind, my dear Elise, that Mukden
matter. Good-by."
"And now, you poor darling!" said Mrs. Clarke in a relieved tone, as she
turned her undivided attention on her abused son, "you shall have a nice
hot bath and a compress on the poor eye, and whatever you want for your
dinner. You are as white as a sheet, and still trembling! You poor lamb!"
Mr. Clarke met them at the drawing-room door:
"Mac!" he demanded, and his face was stern, "did you have anything to do
with the breaking of the big window at the cathedral?"
"No, sir," Mac faltered, kicking at the newel post.
"You didn't even know it was broken?"
"Oh, everybody was throwing rocks, and that old, crazy Mason--"
"But I thought you were helping Mason?"
"I was--that is--those alley micks--"
"That will do!" his father said angrily. "I've just been notified to have
you at the juvenile court next Friday to answer a charge of destroying
property. This is a nice scrape for my son to get into! And you didn't
have the grit to tell the truth. You lied to me! You'll go to bed, sir,
without your dinner!"
Mrs. Clarke's eyes were round with indignation, and she was on the point
of bursting into passionate protest when a warning glance from her
husband silenced her.
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