Joan Daisy and her gaze, which had been drawn to Max, visited Mr. Clarke again with her last word.
"Who was in your home at the time?"
"My mother was in her room, which was next to the one where Mr. Ketlar and I talked."
"Did anything especial occur after you entered your apartment?"
"Yes. I went into the coat closet to hang up my things and I was reaching up to a shelf to put away my hat. Mr. Ketlar stepped forward in his quick way to help me—I am not tall, you see—and as he approached, a scarf which I was wearing caught the handle of the door, which I pulled as I raised my arm; so the door flew over and Mr. Ketlar struck the edge of the door and cut his forehead.
"He went to the bathroom and stopped the bleeding and washed away the blood. Naturally, this stopped our argument over his music, and my father came in just then.
"We turned on the radio, getting Los Angeles."
"How did you know that?"
"The dials were tuned to Los Angeles; besides, the announcer spoke Los Angeles clearly both before and after the song."
"Which was?" prompted Max.
"'Home, Sweet Home.' We heard it, the three of us together, Frederic Ketlar, my father and I, from the first verse to the end, and the announcement of the station, Los Angeles, afterwards."
"Ketlar, then, was with you continuously from the time you met him in front of the building until after the finish of the singing of 'Home, Sweet Home' in Los Angeles?"
"Yes," Joan Daisy swore.
"And he was with you how long after that?"
