tense. But during the ride, she had relapsed to a nervous dullness, although Oliver kept talking to her, repeating that here was her chance to free Ket no matter what the jury decided in regard to the case they had heard.
"You'll certainly show up Calvin Clarke," said Oliver; and she sat straight, in her corner, recalling to herself how Calvin Clarke had described her to the jury and how he had assailed her on the stand.
A pylon, of almost Pharaonic proportions, loomed resplendently beside the road. Its material was wood and cheap plaster staff, but it was gaudily painted and brightly illuminated by concealed lights. Back of the garish fraud of a gateway, the old, awkward structure of the oft-renamed and remodeled road-house reared its rectangular and practical flank. Except for a straggle of sheds in the rear, the establishment was a solitary landmark in this neighborhood where the fringe of the city was frayed to a few forsaken-looking shanties, standing far apart on the snow-covered ground which gleamed green under the rays of the midnight moon.
The taxi halted before the pylon, and Oliver stepped out, feeling himself to be none too steady; he helped his companion from the cab, scrutinizing her face in the glare of the gate lights to reassure himself, before he escorted her into this stronghold of Baretta, that the girl kept her nerve.
"All set?" he whispered, unable to discern, because of the quivering of his own hand, whether she was shaking.
Joan Daisy nodded and she lifted her head, as her heart thumps beat her breast and she felt too choked to speak. A door was drawn open by some unseen attendant of the Temple and Joan Daisy invaded the place slightly in advance of Oliver.
