Without a word Gilbert and George sat down.
Tom could feel those eyes of Gilbert, questioning, menacing.
He flung himself on the wall bed, then extended on the floor. He lit a cigarette—tossed away the match. Still Gilbert was looking at him. He puffed at the cigarette.
"Up kind of late, aren't you, George?" he queried airily.
"Tom, don't try to be funny!"
Gilbert's tone was solemn.
The youth turned to him, surprised.
"Tom, do you know why we are here?"
Cleo Found
The question came slowly. Gilbert's eyes were unwavering.
Tom drew at his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, shook his head.
"You don't know why we're here?" demanded Gilbert.
"No."
Still the eyes of the older man were upon him.
"Tom," said Gilbert, "is Cleo here?"
Hale shook his head emphatically, looked surprised.
"No," he said.
He was puffing nervously at his cigarette.
"Was she—was she here last night, Tom?"
"No."
There was a silence.
"Are you sure, Tom—are you sure you are telling the truth?"
"Certainly I am. Why?"
His voice trembled.
"Because," said Gilbert, "George Lowe says my daughter spent last night in this apartment."
Tom turned to Lowe savagely.
"You're a dirty rat!" he snarled, a dangerous light in his eyes.
Lowe smiled.
"But am I a liar, Tom?"
The youth leveled his eyes to him.
"Yes," he said, "you're a liar—Cleo Gilbert never was inside this apartment.”"
"Wasn't she!"
George Lowe's words came more as an exclamation than a question. He had risen to his feet. He was smiling triumphantly, almost laughing. He was bowing with exaggerated politeness in the direction of the door leading to the kitchen.
Gilbert turned quickly toward the door.
He groaned and buried his head in his hands.
There, standing in the door, held by Pearl, the detective, was Cleo.
"Wasn't she?" yelled Lowe. "Was I such a liar?"
Then—
"Good evening, Miss Cleo," he said succulently. "It must have been cold out there on the back porch with just your nightie and an overcoat—"
Gilbert Is Shocked
Tom Hale swung, caught him square in the mouth. George fell backward in the chair, blood on his mouth. He looked up, dazed. Tom was standing over him; Joe Pearl was holding Tom's arms.
But Stephen Gilbert paid no attention to that. He had lifted his head, was staring at his daughter standing in the doorway.
Yes, it was true. She was wearing an overcoat—Tom Hale's overcoat— over something that was flimsy and pink. Her brown bobbed hair was awry. Her bright eyes were defiant. She looked straight at him.
A moment Gilbert felt an impulse to murder Tom Hale. What was the use? He realized he was old and helpless and that life was futile.
He looked again at his daughter—standing there, eyes blazing defiantly.
God, she was beautiful, he had to concede.
She took a step forward, and faced Pearl, who still held Tom's arms.
"Say, you big brute," she exclaimed,
