“Angel”—Langley’s voice shook with emotion—“Angel, have a little sense. My God, don’tcha know what you’ve done? C’mon in the house.”
“What have I done?” Angel’s voice was querulous. “I’m my own boss, ain’t I? They gave me the worst of it, and I’m payin’ ’em back. And I’m payin’ Slim Caldwell, damn his dirty heart. Don’t touch me, Langley—none of yuh.”
“Come in the house,” begged Langley. “Mebby we can git things straight.”
“I’ll come in, Langley; but don’t touch us. Go ahead—we’ll come.”
The men of the JML went ahead and entered the lighted kitchen, while close behind them came Angel and Lila. He had her right hand gripped at the wrist, and was still carrying his cocked gun. He shoved her in ahead of him, and stood there, glaring at them. He was hatless, and there were marks on his face which showed that Lila had not come willingly. She was panting heavily, and Langley thought she was going to faint, but when he started to get her a chair, Angel threw up his gun.
“Stay where yuh are, Langley,” he said harshly.
“Sure,” agreed Langley.
“Oh, let me go,” begged Lila.
Angel laughed mockingly.
“The—the house was on fire,” panted Lila. “We—we upset the table and the lamp fell.”