Mary moved inside, Loveman at her heels. But Clifford remained without, waiting. The situation was Mary’s—for her to face, for her to reveal herself by.
Mary stepped quickly forward and shook Jack’s shoulder. “Jack—wake up! Come on out of this!”
Jack, a limp weight, showed no life, but the other three did. Nan Burdette sprang up.
“Stop that! What d’you think you’re doing?”
Mary flamed at her—and at Nina Cordova—and at Hilton. “I’m going to take him away from you blood-suckers,” she said with cold fury.
“You call me that—” the café beauty was beginning angrily, when Nina Cordova, the petite, rose and checked her. “Shut up, Nan!” She leaned toward Mary, and spoke cuttingly, “Why, if it isn’t the little dame that Jack lived with, and got tired of, and then gave the grand shake. Well, little one, what are you going to do with your darling sweetheart who loves you so much that he’s run away to avoid the sight of you?”
Mary’s voice was chokingly composed. She returned the other’s ironical gaze with a glare of contempt.
“I’m going to take him away from you people—to where he can sober up—have a chance to think about it all—become himself. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“And what good’ll that do you?” pursued Nina cuttingly—“since he’s all through with you?”
“What he thinks of me has nothing to do with the case,” Mary returned.