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Burke's right arm shot into the air, with the vow, and his fist clenched until the knuckles stood out ridged against the bloodless pallor of his tense skin. Trubus looked straight into Burke's eyes, and his own gaze dropped before the white flame which was burning in them. Burke turned without a word and walked from the office. After he had gone Trubus rang the buzzer for his telephone girl.
"I'm afraid that she will not be as happy as she thinks, if daddy has told me right about Ralph Gresham. But, oh, if I could hear something from Bobbie about Lorna. I believe I will call him up." She was just summoning the courage for a private call when the private office door opened, and Gresham, Sylvia, her mother and Trubus emerged. "I will return in ten minutes, Miss," said Trubus.
"If you don't want your wife to know about this, get in quickly," commanded Sawyer sharply. Trubus began to expostulate, but his thick lips quivered with emotion. "Down to the station house, quick!" ordered the captain to the chauffeur. "No speed limit." "I'll have you discharged from the force for this, you scoundrel!" Trubus finally found words to say. "Where is your warrant for my arrest?
The smug countenance, the neatly brushed "mutton-chops," the immaculate dinner coat of William Trubus appeared, and Bobbie looked up into the angry glint of the gentleman's black eyes. "What do you mean by annoying me here? Why didn't you telephone me?" began the owner of the mansion. "I am just going out to dinner." He looked sharply at Burke, vaguely remembering the face of the young officer.
But the poor devils who cheer them and vote for them don't realize that every dollar of graft comes, not out of the pockets of property owners and employers, but from reduced wages, increased rents, and expensive, rotten food. Trubus would have been a great Alderman or State Senator: he wasted his talents on religion." Burke turned to the door. "Shall I go up to his house, Captain?
They don't have to work for a mean boss, they don't know what it is to go hungry and starved and afraid to call your soul your own scared by the salary envelope at the end of the week. They don't get out and make their souls sweat blood. Otherwise, they'd reform the world so quickly that men like Trubus wouldn't be able to make a living out of the charity game." Barton smiled jovially.
He formerly ran a gambling house, and at different times has been involved in bunco game and wire-tapping tricks. He is one of the cleverest crooks in New York. In the present case he has been the go-between for this man Trubus, who, posing as a reformer to cover his activities, has kept in touch with the work of the Vice Trust, managed by Clemm.
Trubus brought his fist down with a bang which spilled grape juice on his neat piles of papers. "Don't you dictate to me. You police are a lot of grafters, in league with the gangsters and the politicians. My society cares for the unfortunate and seeks to work its reforms by mentally and spiritually uplifting the poor.
Trubus paled, but caught her in his arms. "My poor dear," he began. "Oh, look, father, what it says in the papers. We missed you ha, ha! and the newsboys sold us this on the street. Look, father, there's your picture. He, he! And Ralph bought it and brought it to me." She staggered and sank half-drooping in his arms. Her head rolled back and her eyes stared wildly at the ceiling.
The sun was setting in the heights of Jersey, across the Hudson, and the golden light tinted the carved stone doorway of Trubus's home, making Burke feel as though he were acting in some stage drama, rather than real life. The spotlight of Old Sol was on him as he rang the bell by the entry. "Is Mr. Trubus home?" asked Burke of the portly butler who answered the summons.
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