"Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars! All that money! Flung to the rats of the city to gnaw!"
"What's the matter with you?" snapped his son. "It was my money."
"I earned it, didn't I? You have nothing but what I gave you!"
"We may get them yet through the banks," suggested Evan.
"Yah! We'll never get them now!"
But however they might quarrel with each other, father and son united in blaming Evan.
"Look at him!" cried the old man, beside himself. "He knows where the money's gone! Of course he didn't catch them. I believe he engineered the whole thing!"
"Be quiet, Papa," said George Deaves in a panic. He turned to Evan with an anxiety almost obsequious. "Don't mind him," he said. "He's excited. You'd better go now. But I'll see you later."
Evan was not deceived. It was clear that George no less than his father believed that he was a party to the crime, but was afraid to say so outright.
"I live at 45A South Washington Square," he said curtly. "You'll find me there any time you want me."