Coming Through the Rye by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

you stay, too. There’s another one I want to see!”
    He was pointing at Sybil. Gladys and Vivian huddled behind her with furtive glances toward the door.
    Mrs. Judson sat down heavily, her stolid face blank with burden and despair. She was looking straight at Sybil as if a revelation was slowly dawning upon her.
    Sybil leaned back nonchalantly against the doorframe, took out her cigarette, and lighted a match with an air of supreme contempt of the whole scene. She eyed the officer with an assumed amusement.
    Then, with surprising agility for one who seemed so massive, Mrs. Judson was upon her feet and standing close to the bold-eyed girl, speaking in a calm low tone of command.
    â€œStop that!” she said. “You can’t do that in my house! I may be old-fashioned and ugly, but I still know what’s right, and there ain’t no little huzzy like you goin’ to overstep me. You c’n blow out that match and put that box in your pocket, but you can’t stand there and smoke in my house. I’ve always been respectable, if my husband is in jail, and I intend to keep so!”
    And, strange to say, Sybil obeyed her. She did it with an air of contempt, but she did it. Frances was amazed. She drooped in her corner and wondered what awful thing would come next.
    Then spoke the officer.
    â€œYou kids had better look out,” he warned. “If you keep up the pace you’re going, you’ll all be landed in jail in another week. I know what I’m talking about, and you’re headed straight downhill!”
    The girls were frightened. Frances’s face grew white, and she watched her mother with a sideways glance, but Sybil stood her ground contemptuously.
    â€œIt’s none of your business what we do,” she said to the man boldly. “And you’ve got no right to make us stay here. I don’t know anything about your Mister Ransom, if that’s what you call him, and I’m going where there’s some fun.”
    â€œYou’re not going until you’ve answered me a few questions,” said the man firmly, and he flashed a badge from under his coat. “You’re the girl that was in that seven-passenger Cadillac that was stolen from Seventh and Broad the other night. You got away then by lying, but you don’t get away now. I’ve got this house watched back and front, and it won’t do any good for you to try to slip out. If you answer my questions straight, you can go where you like, but if you try to put something over on me I’ll have you taken to headquarters. Now, what’s your full name?”
    â€œSybil Mary Johnston,” answered the girl sullenly.
    â€œWhere do you live?”
    â€œThirty-two Maple Street.”
    â€œIs that your parents’ home?”
    â€œNo. I live with my grandmother.”
    â€œI see. And where do you go to school?”
    â€œOh, I quit school ages ago. I work in the silk fac’try.” There was a swagger to Sybil Mary’s voice now. She felt that she was going to “get by” after all.
    â€œI see. And do you go out every evening in the week? Does your grandmother approve?”
    â€œOh, sure! Nobody can’t keep me in. Let ’em try. I never ast her could I go. I just go.”
    â€œI see. And how early do you leave home?”
    â€œIt seems to me you’re mighty nosey. I’m sure I don’t know. I go when I like!”
    â€œAnd where you like, I suppose. Well, do you happen to remember just what time you started out last Thursday night and where you went?”
    â€œI don’t recall,” said the girl insolently.
    â€œWell,
recall
!” said the officer in a compelling tone. “You left your home somewhere about seven-thirty and went to the drugstore at the corner of Third and Pine Streets. You had several sodas and a sundae, and then walked down the street toward Fourth in company with the two girls who stand behind you, where