“Yes, you an’ him are twins, all right,” Harry interposed, “but he knows enough to keep quiet most of the time, and you don’t.”
“Now, Harry, what did I ever do against you?” Philip asked.
“Not a thing, but you wouldn’t side with Blanche all the time ’f you wasn’t like she is,” Harry answered.
The argument went on, with Blanche subsiding to a hopeless silence, but as the meal ended, it became more indifferent. Their appeased appetites brought the others a brief, sluggish contentment, and they felt sure that it was all just a “lot of jawing,” and that Blanche would never really revolt—she was a Palmer, after all.
The next week passed quietly enough, with Blanche and Harry casting disdainful looks at each other but rarely speaking, and the rest of the family persuaded that it might be better to leave Blanche alone as long as she failed to do anything definitely objectionable. Then, one evening, just after Blanche had returned from work, a loud rapping sounded on the front door, and after her mother had responded, Blanche heard a gruff voice asking: “Is this where Mabel Palmer lives, huh?” When her mother had answered yes, the gruff voice continued: “Well, we’re detectives from the Sixth Precinct, and we want to have a talk with you people.”
“Oh, Lord, what’s the matter—what’s happened to Mabel?” Mrs. Palmer asked, agitatedly, as she entered the living-room, with the two detectives walking behind her.
They were tall, burly men, in dark, ill-fitting suits, slouch hats of brown, and heavy, black shoes, and one of them had a florid, impassive face, while the other was tanned and more openly inquiring. They sat down in chairs and looked the Palmers over. Harry and his father sought to appear calm and careless but could not repress an involuntary nervousness—there were several shady spots in their lives that shrank from the impending searchlight, but these bulls wouldn’t be acting this way if they really knew anything—while Philip looked warmly innocent—they didn’t have anything on him—and Mrs. Palmer wrung her hands and told herself that all of her dire prophecies had been fulfilled. Blanche was curious but undisturbed—little Mabel Know-Everything had gotten into trouble at last, but what was it?
“Your girl’s locked up at Arlington Market,” the florid detective said. “You know why, don’tcha?”
“My poor little Mabel, what’s happened to her?” Mrs. Palmer asked. “I don’t know a thing that she’s done, I swear I don’t!”
“That’s straight, we don’t know what it’s all about,” Harry said, and his father eagerly corroborated him.