from the jury-room, where he imagined Andreapolos arguing for conviction of Ketlar, to the jail, where the prisoner was in his cell discussing with his cellmates, undoubtedly, his chances of death. Roving, not at Calvin's will but wantonly, his mind visited Anna Folwell, waiting somewhere near the Criminal Courts for the decision of her son's fate; then Calvin's mind sought the Royle girl.
It seemed, in its seeking, to search about from place to place—from a restaurant on Clark Street, near the Criminal Courts, to an automat further away; it boarded a street-car which might be carrying her home to the flat above Ketlar's.
Nowhere could he quite find her; he had the strange sense of entering each place after she just had gone; and the pursuit amazingly tired him. Faster, faster he would send his mind after her, but never could he catch her.
Sharply, at a few minutes before ten, his phone rang and brought him Heminway's voice:
"I'm at the office. Can you come over right away?"
"What is it?" asked Calvin, "a verdict?"
"No sign; but can you come over quick?"
"Why?"
"Come on over."
Calvin started immediately, wondering at the peculiar garrulity of Chicagoans when there was nothing to talk about and their enigmatic muteness when they had something to say.
A conference was proceeding in Heminway's office, he found when he arrived at the state's attorney's suite. Ellison was there and Heminway together with a couple of other assistants detailed upon the Considine case; and with them sat three plain-clothes detectives, one of whom—a man named Seifert—was in a swivel chair near the center of the room and plainly was the object of attention.
