"Where is that boy?" she asked, looking about in some anxiety. "Father, you should see him. He is so different from the boys who follow—"
"We were just talking about him," interrupted her father shortly. "He's wanted by the police, so you see he ain't so different from the rest after all. He's a—"
"Don't, Tom," cried his wife.
"—a murderer," completed Braddock, rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
The girl stared at him for a moment, dumbly, uncomprehendingly. Her lips parted and her eyes grew very wide.
"Oh, father," she cried, in low, hushed tones. Then she turned to her mother, almost imploringly. "Is—is it true, mother?"
"Well, see here," broke in Braddock angrily. "Don't you believe me? Haven't I said so?"
"He is the Jenison boy we were talking about last night, dearie," said Mrs. Braddock. "I don't believe he committed that horrid crime. I can't believe it."
"I am sure he didn't—I am sure he didn't," cried the girl impulsively. "He is a gentleman, father. He couldn't—"
Braddock took instant offense. He hated to hear any one spoken of as a gentleman.