“I wonder if I ought not to put you in jail now?” said the monocle-man meditatively. “There’s a cell vacant next to the hammer-thrower. You would be congenial spirits.”
“It’s proofs I’m asking, Mr. Detective,” retorted Gee-gee, apparently not greatly abashed by this threat. She was accustomed to hitting back.
“Yes, it’s proofs,” said Gid-up, but in weaker accents.
The monocle-man shook a reproving finger at Gid-up. “You’re in bad company, my dear,” he observed. “You’re out of Gee-gee’s class. You’re just trying to be in it.”
“I don’t want any of your impertinence,” answered Gid-up with a faint imitation of Gee-gee’s manner. “He’s a proper bad one.” Pointing to Clarence who presented a picture of abject misery. “And when I tell all the things he done to me—”
“But you won’t tell them.”
“I have.” Defiantly. “In that paper the lawyer drew up.”
“But you’re going to sign a little paper I have here, repudiating all that,” he answered her.
“Oh, am I?” Elevating her turned-up nose.
“You are.” Blandly.