"You may pretend to think that I'm not what I represent myself to be, but let me tell you, McLaughlin is going to hear of this. One more insult to these ladies and I'll make it my business to go personally to your employers. Get me?"
"Shut your trap, Jim," snarled Mehan. "Yer ain't got no orders fer no fancy language." He leered at Geneviève. "Now we've shooed the chickens out, we're tru'." With a wave of his huge paw he indicated the highway the turn of the path revealed.
Geneviève looked to the right, where the car should be waiting her. It was gone. Evidently the indignant Mrs. Brewster-Smith had expedited the departure. Miss Eliot read her discomfiture.
"My car is right down here behind that palatial mansion with the hole in the roof and the tin-can extension. Thank you very much for your escort," she added, turning to the two representatives of the Protective League. "My name, by the way, is E. Eliot. I am a real-estate agent and my office is at 22 Braston Street. You might mention it in your report."
The little car stood waiting, surrounded by a group of admiring children. Its owner stepped in briskly, backed around and received her passengers.
"Well," she smiled as they drew out on the traveled highway, "how do you like the purlieus of our noble little city?"
Genevieve was silent. Then she spoke with conviction.
"When George is in power—and he's got to be—the Law will be the Law. I know him."