J.L. poured another drink and settled in a comfortable chair to wait and to plan. Perhaps he should be imperious. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself. He was taller. His arms were folded high on his chest; his legs were spread wide like two sturdy trees. He had grown a full handle bar mustache. "Glory," he could hear himself say, "I forbid you ever to see that man again." Unfortunately the screen showed the probable result. She salaamed before him, touching her forehead to the carpet, "I hear and obey O Magnificent One." Sarcasm was more than he could bear. If only he had some proof. If only Marge hadn't been so approving. The slam of the front door dragged him from a nightmare in which Glory, having married Ernest Stringer, was drowning in a roomful of coin and currency. The level of money had just reached her frightened eyes. In the dim light of the hall he saw her leaning against the door she had slammed. Her shoulders were hunched with sobbing. "Glory, what's the matter?" She looked up, saw her father, and ran to her room. J.L. heaved out of the chair and followed, slowly. Her door was open a crack. He hesitated, then knocked lightly. No answer. He pushed the door wide enough to see in. She was perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, crying silently in the darkened room. "Mind if I come in?" Still no answer. He stepped in and sat gingerly on the bed beside her. Several minutes passed. "Want to tell me?" he said gently. She shook her head violently without looking up. Suddenly, she turned and pressed her face to his chest. The sobbing subsided a little and her words came haltingly. "It was awful. He's a subversive--a criminal--and I didn't even guess." She caught her breath. "We flew over to Staten Island. He parked near the water. Then he said, 'I want you to marry me.' Just like that. I liked him a lot--but I didn't know what to say. Then he said--Oh Daddy, it was horrible--" Her sobs increased again and she fumbled for his pocket kerchief. "He--he said, 'Look at this'. And Daddy it was one of those secret bankbooks! He has one hundred thousand dollars--and he's only twenty-five--and he's proud of it! He's worse than the old time gangsters, worse than--oh, Daddy--he's a non-consumer...." The last word trailed off in a wail and she was sobbing again. J.L. tightened his grip on her shoulders. "Be thankful, Baby," he murmured. "Be thankful you found the dirty so-and-so out in time."