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 law. Do you believe any court would credit Titus Burke’s unsupported statement—especially with the money involved [sic] that is involved here?”

Dave shrugged his shoulders.

“Again,” Craig went on, “why has Titus concealed the relationship all these years? Why, when she came here years ago did not Kate—if it was Kate—go to her father?”

“Reason is with you,” Dave said, “but my conviction is firm. I feel it in my bones….”

“There’s our man on the porch,” said Craig, “and if I’m any judge the time we have to work with him will be short. He won’t be here many days.”

Titus Burke, wrapped in a quilt, was sitting in an armchair in the sun. He eyed their approach speculatively, apprehensively, with narrowed, watery eyes; and as they turned in at the gate he drew back in his chair with a motion like that of a snapping-turtle withdrawing into its shell.

Craig was direct. “We won’t ask you to talk much, Burke,” he said, “but there are a few questions you must answer.”

Titus snarled. “Don’t go pesterin’ a man when he’s so sick he kin scarcely git his breath….”

“Your son has been good to you,” said Craig. “Have you no gratitude?”