"There's only one course open to you, my boy. You must give this
girl up."
The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there
was no weakness.
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted. Then he went on
quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness. "If you don't, what
are you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol
wagon and carried to Police Headquarters--for it's sure to
happen? The cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day
she'll make one."
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was
furious at this supposition that she would continue in her
irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her
with masks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in
the Rogues' Gallery, but they will take another. Yes, and the
imprints of her fingers, and the measurements of her body."
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these
things were said was the woman whom he loved.
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