"You pour it for him, please," she said to the nurse and sank into her chair.
He ignored the cup, which the nurse filled. "You're tired through," he said to Joan Daisy, and his own face was white as he gazed down at her. "You ought to be in bed now. Stay here to-night."
"No," Joan Daisy protested, forgetting his determination. "I'm going home."
"I'll take you."
"Have your tea first," she begged, and she stood waiting until he drank it.
"I wish," he said, when they were alone side by side, in the cab, "you would simply rest."
"It's absolutely impossible."
"Because of me?"
"I shot somebody to-night," she replied. "Maybe I killed him."
"You ought to hope so," said Calvin. "I do."
"Yes; but do you feel sleepy, hoping that? I mean, even if you weren't hurt, would you?"
"No."
"Would you've slept to-night? I mean, if Mr. Oliver hadn't called you and told you about Baretta?"
"I would have expected to."
"Hoping you'd killed Ket?"
"What do you mean?"
"You wanted to have Ket killed; you asked the jury to kill him; so you hoped they'd do it, didn't you?"
"I was wrong, completely wrong in the whole matter."
She was silent for a minute, and he felt her tensely erect beside him and he could see vaguely her clear, pretty profile in the light which streaked through the cab windows.
"Of course you were born and brought up to it," she resumed, startling him.
