“Does that come into it? Does it matter what I think of her?”
Disconcerted by Conrad’s straight look, Forest lifted his heavy shoulders.
“No, you’re quite right.” He stubbed out his cigar. “I shouldn’t have asked that. Well, I guess I’ve got to get on with my work. Let me know how things develop.”
“I will,” Conrad said, and made for the door.
When he had gone, Forest stared gloomily down at his blotter.
He sat thinking for a few moments, his face worried, then with a sudden shrug of his shoulders, he reached for the pile of papers that were waiting his attention.
II
Sergeant Tom O’Brien stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at his son. O’Brien’s usually granite-hard face had softened, making him look younger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes never seen by either his colleagues or by his customers.
“Go to sleep,” he said, “or you and me will run into trouble when your mother comes home.”
His son, a freckle-faced youngster within reaching distance of a seventh birthday, gave his father a wide, disarming smile.