"The case against this girl is morally as bad as that against Ketlar; it is worse. But legal proof against her is lacking. Therefore, to-night I have released her but with the expectation of rearresting her soon.
"Even more than Ketlar, she is a destroyer of society, an enemy of our civilization. She told me today, when I had her in custody, that the country would be better off when there were more Ketlars and fewer of our blood. There was no comparison, in her mind, of the values of playing jazz and enforcing law. This is what our country is coming to.
"Do not imagine that she is unique. Murderers, when they kill for love, become heroes here; a thousand girls would marry Ketlar to-morrow.
"A girl of eighteen forced her way up to my rooms this evening to inform me that Ketlar had not killed for the Royle girl but because of herself. She desired the honor!"
Calvin realized that he was writing heavily, with black ink flowing broadly from his pen; he felt the cramp of his fingers in the intensity of his emotion. Seldom, indeed not since the war, had he been so stirred.
He reread what he had written and took up the sheet to tear it, realizing how his mother would wonder at this demonstration from him. Then, his hand stiffened again and he determined to let the letter go. In fact, he added to it:
"I put the punishment of the Royle girl as more important than the punishment of Ketlar, although probably the law can not touch her," and signed his name.
He took the letter to the mailbox on the street, and, after dropping it in, immediately assailed himself for the violence of his last lines. What would they mean to his mother?
What did they mean to himself? he asked, as he strode across the street to the lake, his mother forgotten, his
