She clung again to the screen trying, as if by touch, to impart to him the hope which had inspired her and which seemed suddenly to mitigate the terrible accusation against Ket and herself and the degrading wretchedness of this imprisonment.
"Ket, you'll be freed!" she cried. "And you'll be great, when you come out; or you can be great! I'll bring you books, Ket, lessons on composing and the great pieces of music. You can study them here; it'll give you just what you want to do. You can learn just what you need to know and work it out in prison, as lots of the great men have—in prison. There's something about that, Ket, that helps!"
But her words were as helpless to reach him as her two hands held from him by the double, steel screen.
"There's something about what that helps?" Ket demanded.
"Being in prison."
"Helps who?" retorted Ket.
"The person, Ket."
"Me, you mean. Well, anybody's welcome to the help I'm gettin' here. You make me tired. Say, have you been over to the Echo?"
"No."
"You're lyin'."
"I've been by, Ket, but I didn't go in."
"If knew you were lyin'. Why? Who's name's in the lights now?"
Joan Daisy recoiled from the screen and did not answer so Ket pursued with, "Henny's, isn't it? Don't try to lie to me. I know. I seen the Echo ads in the paper. It's Henny's Dance Orchestra now—mine," he ended bitterly.
"Ket, I'll bring you the books," she tried to comfort him. "Don't bother about the Echo. They'll want you
