I couldn't tell him that Jerry had sent me to try to stop this murder. I remembered in time that Jerry forbade me a word. There was no use talking to father, anyway.
"Get some clothes on," was all he said to me.
"Keeban did that!" I proclaimed; and father pulled up and faced me.
"There's no Keeban; don't let me hear you say that again. This family faces the fact; Jerry's gone to crime. We face it and we do not shirk our responsibility. Come to yourself, Stephen. Jerry's picture is in police headquarters in every city east or west; New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Baltimore, every headquarters has reported the same; they have no criminal in their galleries who would be taken for Jerry. There's never been a Keeban in crime; it's Jerry."
"Keeban, he goes by the name of Harry Vine," I returned; "he's not in their galleries because he's kept out of their hands. They've got to catch a man before they can photograph him."
My father gave me up. "Come talk to the police," he said and stalked from my room.
Downstairs I met Mullaney and a plain clothes man from the central detective bureau
