"Poor devil!" growled the old man. "You can't help being sorry for him, even if he did do it to hit back. It's his child and he's fond of her."
George gave a short laugh:
"I fancy it's more the hitting back than the fondness. Chapman's not shown up lately in a very sentimental light. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd ransom in the back of his mind. But we'll put an end to his ambitions or parental longings or whatever's inspiring him." He looked at his watch, then rose. "It's a quarter past seven and O'Malley's due at the half hour. It's understood we're to bring the child here first?"
His father gave an assenting grunt and hitched his chair into the current of air from the fan.
George turned on the lights, their tempered radiance flooding the room, the windows starting out as black squares sewn with stars.
"I don't quite see what I'm going to say to him," he muttered, a sidelong eye on his father.
"Say nothing," came the answer. "Bring the child back here—that's your job. Leave him to me. Mrs. Janney and I'll have it out with him when the time comes."
On the tick of half-past seven O'Malley appeared. Trickles of perspiration ran down his red face, and his collar was melted to a sodden band.
"Gee," he panted as he ran a handkerchief round his neck, "it's like a Turkish bath down there in the street."
"Well," said George, impatient of all but the main issue, "is it all right?"