privileges of a client with her attorney. You are my client; I will represent you in this case, as well as Frederic Ketlar; so you can tell me anything whatever you did, no matter what, you see? I can not tell any one. No; why, if I wanted to, the law forbids. The court itself can not make an attorney tell what his client tells him in confidence. Read the law before you say one more word to me, Client. Then talk to me as your attorney. My son Herman, also he is your attorney."
Joan Daisy read, obediently, and son Herman removed the book. "Now," said papa Max, leaning back with his finger tips pressed together, his large eyes wide open in an expectant, friendly expression. In a moment Joan Daisy was talking, freely and without reserve, relating exactly what she had done on the night Adele had been killed, what she had seen and what she had said to Ket and what had happened after the police and Mr. Clarke had come.
"Good!" interjected Max Elmen, several times. "Good; very, very good!" It was his sole interruption, except for the questions by which he led her into details of matters which he wished her to repeat.
"Good!" he commended her, most emphatically, when she told him of the song from Los Angeles which was coming in on the radio when Ket kissed her at her door; and she had to reiterate that occurrence when her story otherwise was done. "Good. Very good!" Max Elmen rubbed his long hands with pleasure. "Good enough, eh, Herman?" he appealed to his son.
"Very good, papa," replied Herman; and papa Max arose and patted his client on the shoulder.
Joan Daisy warmed with delight. The incident of the song formed in her mind the alibi which would save Ket, and these lawyers seemed to think so, too. "It's a perfect alibi, isn't it, Mr. Elmen?" she cried.
