He must know some reason, which she did not, which made it essential for him to deny that he had gone to the lake to-night. If he admitted it, they might be able to take his life in punishment for the shooting of Adele cf which he was not guilty. So, in his last appeal, he had asked her to stick to that lie for him. And, as she tried to arrange the events of the evening in her mind so as to leave no gap between the time he had left her and had returned, she went sick at heart.
Not from moral opposition to lies, but because she knew too well how weak and worse than useless lies might prove. How many times had she listened to Dads' clever, quick, persuasive lies, only to witness them turned against him at the end to his complete confusion!
"How did it happen?" Joan cried to Cummins, instead of answering him.
"How much do you already know?" Cummins countered, warily.
"I don't know anything but what you've told me. Adele's killed. Lucy, the little girl, was she hurt in it? Won't you tell me that?"
"The baby's all right," Cummins muttered. "Slept right through it. Now you sit down and go ahead. Tell about yourself. Your name is Joan Daisy Royle, you say. You live upstairs. Who with? Your husband?"
"No; I'm not married. I live with my father."
"Who's he?"
"James M. Royle."
"What does he do?"
"I'm a stenographer."
"I didn't ask about you, yet; I said, what does your father do?"
"He's—not employed," Joan replied.
"Hmm. Bootlegger, you mean?"
"No."
