“I've told you, Dad——” he began.
“You must, I tell you,” the father insisted. Then he went on quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness. “If you don't, what are you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and carried to Police Headquarters—for it's sure to happen? The cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day she'll make one.”
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was furious at this supposition that she would continue in her irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
“They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her with masks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in the Rogues' Gallery, but they will take another. Yes, and the imprints of her fingers, and the measurements of her body.”
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these things were said was the woman whom he loved. It was blasphemy to think of her in such case, subjected to the degradation of these processes. Yet, every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of truth. His face whitened. He raised a supplicating hand.
“Father!”
“That's what they will do to your wife,” Gilder went on harshly; “to the woman who bears your name and mine.” There was a little pause, and the father stood rigid, menacing. The final question came rasping. “What are you going to do about it?”
Dick went forward until he was close to his father. Then he spoke with profound conviction.
“It will never happen. She will go straight, Dad. That I know. You would know it if you only knew her as I do.”