"What's your address?"
And Rod's play coming on the next night but one! She shrank,
collected herself. "I am not going to drag him into this, if
I can help it," said she. "I give you a chance to keep
yourselves out of trouble." She was gazing calmly at the
sergeant again. "You know these men are not telling the
truth. You know they've brought me here because of Freddie
Palmer. My husband knows all about my past. He will stand by
me. But I wish to spare him."
The sergeant's uncertain manner alarmed Black Mustache.
"She's putting up a good, bluff" scoffed he. "The truth is
she ain't got no husband. She'd not have solicited us if she
was living decent."
"You hear what the officer says," said the sergeant, taking
the tone of great kindness. "You'll have to give your name
and address--and I'll leave it to the judge to decide between
you and the officers." He took up his pen. "What's your name?"
Susan, weak and trembling, was clutching the iron rail before
the desk--the rail worn smooth by the nervous hands of ten
thousand of the social system's sick or crippled victims.
"Come--what's your name?" jeered Black Mustache.
Susan did not answer.
"Put her down Queenie Brown," cried he, triumphantly.
The sergeant wrote. Then he said: "Age?"
No answer from Susan. Black Mustache answered for her:
"About twenty-two now."
"She don't look it," said the sergeant, almost at ease once
more.
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