Emily entered, propelled by a strong arm.
Fay rose. He flashed an assuring glance. He reached and offered her a chair.
The picture she left with him, as he turned for the chair, was one he could never forget.
Golden-glossed hair, fine-spun as flax, an oval face, big sherry-colored eyes, long lashes, a round breast and straight figure—was his summing up of little Emily O’Mara.
The Dropper lunged for the girl. He lifted her chin. He leered as she cringed from him.
“This guy wants to see you, kid!”
Fay pressed the sides of his trousers with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He waited, with his teeth grinding. He wanted to leap the distance, reach, clutch and throttle the purple neck of the brute.
The Dropper swung a terrible jaw and eyed Fay.
“Go to it!” he rumbled. “Get done with the kid, damn quick. Tell her she’ll never see her old man again. That’s wot I’ve been tellin’ her—all the time.”
Fay waited until the Dropper disappeared. He moved the chair he had offered to the girl, so that she could see it.