She had risen slowly from the bed—a, gaunt, pitiful figure, pitifully clothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly over her shoulders, still clutching the baby that, too, was crying now.
The officers looked at one another and nodded.
"Guess she's handing it straight—we'll have a look on our own hook," the leader muttered.
She paid no attention to them—she was walking straight to Jimmie Dale.
"It's you, is it," she whispered fiercely through her sobs, "that would bring more shame and ruin here—you that's selling my man's life away with your filthy lies for what they're paying you—it's you, is it, that" Her voice broke.
There was a frightened, uneasy look in Larry the Bat's eyes, his lips were twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall—and then, glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating their permission, began to edge toward the door.
For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her hand clenched at her side—and then she found her voice again.
"Get out of here!" she said, in a choked, strained way, pointing to the door. "Get out of here—you dirty skate!"
"Sure!" mumbled Larry the Bat, his eyes on the floor. "Sure!" he mumbled—and the door closed behind him.
