"I think perhaps it would be better."
"But it wouldn't. You stay here," the man answered with great positiveness. She sank obediently in the chair, to the disgusted amazement of her brother, and let them go alone.
"Were you out with her last night?"
"Yes."
The lad sunk his hand to his coat pocket, his wild young brain aflame with violence and romance and vengeance and the memory of Moxey's sweetheart's uncle who had slain the despoiler of his home. Stevens was near death and he knew it, but he never batted an eye as Al reported later to Moxey.
"I knew it damned well. She said she was alone." His hand tightened on the automatic, pressing down the safety lock, and he pointed the gun, so that he could shoot through his pocket and kill.
"She was, after eleven. I left her then."
"Prove it. You've got to," insultingly.
"Go look at the hotel register, for the name of Miss Georgia Talbot."
Al grunted. Here was a concrete fact—subject to verification, yes or no. "All right," he vouchsafed curtly, "if it turns out that way—but one more thing—keep away from her after this altogether—understand." Al shot out his jaw and swung around his pocket with the barrel pointing straight at Stevens' middle. He looked just then a good deal like a young tough delivering a serious threat, which he was.