Both Zida and Joshua obeyed the ruthless voice, and John Cole entered into low-voiced conversation with the detective. This continued for perhaps a minute, while Joshua, pale and suddenly deathly sick at his stomach, crouched on the first step of the flight of stairs. Then the detective’s voice began rising gradually, and the boy heard:
“I’ll tell you just this much, Mr. Cole: I don’t wanta hear o’ your duckin’ that boy! I know all about it. Huntin’ ’im up led me to several niggers that used to work for you when you lived on Park Avenue, and all of ’em told the same story. You ain’t got any right to treat a kid like that, and if I find out you done it I’ll see what I c’n do down at headquarters. That’s all I gotta say, but I mean it. I got kids o’ my own, and I guess they ain’t any better’n other ord’nary kids. But I never found it necessary to hold their heads in a bathtub full o’ water until they fainted.”
“I guess that will be about enough from you, officer,” was John Cole’s dismissal of the man.
“Well, that’s all right. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. But I’m gonta tell the cop on this beat to keep his ears open to-night, that’s all. I’ll make it hot for you if you try that duckin’ racket to-night. That’s all—good-night.”
And the door closed after him.
Slowly John Cole turned to his son. For over half a minute he stood eyeing him with cold savagery, then he said crisply:
“Go up to your room, Joshua.”
“I—can’t I see Mother first?” pleaded the boy.
“Your mother has gone to bed, ill from worrying over you. Go to your room, as I told you.”
Joshua got up and slowly climbed the stairs.