With cold fingers he held up the picture that he drew from his pocket until it rested beside the one on the wall. They were the same!
Eyes transfixed, Johnny stared on and on, and as he stood there spellbound, the door opened. Jackson Kent faced him. Something too big for words held the two for a brief second. Johnny was the first to react. Surreptitiously the hand holding the picture moved to his pocket, but he was too late. The old man had been staring at it.
Fingers of steel caught and held Johnny’s arm. The surprise had died out of Kent’s eyes. They were flashing now with a madman’s fury. The boy could feel the man’s hot breath upon his cheek. Johnny heard the other’s voice break as he fought for speech.
Then, with heaving lungs, old Jackson cried out:
“Give it to me! Give it to me—do you hear?” His voice arose until it became almost a scream as he demanded: “What are you doin’ with that picture of my little girl?”
Kent’s hungry fingers lunged for the coveted photograph. Johnny’s eyes had narrowed to mere slits.
“No!” he exclaimed. “I keep that picture. It belongs to a dead man!”
CHAPTER VIII
STRAIGHT TALK
Johnny had immediate cause to regret his melodramatic words.
“Give me his name! Tell me who he was!” the old man shouted.