Her voice was vibrant with
confidence. "Then after you've called up the district attorney, we'll
drive to Clay's flat in Harlem and find out from Johnnie what he can
tell us. Perhaps he knows what Clay was doing in that place they
raided."
It was not necessary to go to the Runt. He came to them. As Beatrice
and her father stepped into the car Johnnie and Kitty appeared round
the corner. Both of them had the news of a catastrophe written on
their faces. A very little encouragement and they would be in tears.
"Ain't it tur'ble, Miss Beatrice? They done got Clay at last. After
he made 'em all look like plugged nickels they done fixed it so he'll
mebbe go to the electric chair and--"
"Stop that nonsense, Johnnie," ordered Miss Whitford sharply, a pain
stabbing her heart at his words. "Don't begin whining already. We've
got to see him through. Buck up and tell me what you know."
"That's right, Johnnie,"' added the mining man. "You and Kitty quit
looking like the Atlantic Ocean in distress. We've got to endure the
grief and get busy. We'll get Lindsay out of this hole all right."
"You're dawg-goned whistlin'. Y'betcha, by jollies!" agreed the Runt,
immensely cheered by Whitford's confidence. "We been drug into this
an' we'll sure hop to it."
"When did you see Clay last? How did he come to be in that
gambling-house? Did he say anything to you about going there?" The
girl's questions tumbled over each other in her hurry.
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