"I'd rather be doing something," she replied, as he followed her into the kitchenette. "But you stay here, Dads."
"Certainly, m'dear," he said, putting forth a hand, not to aid in dishwashing, but for her clasp. She clung to his hand for a few moments and he felt her quivering.
"Dads, it wasn't Ket!"
"No doubt whatever about that, m' dear."
"Mr. Clarke will free him at ten o'clock to-morrow."
"That's the hour, Joan."
"I'll be there."
"You'll not be alone, m' dear; far from it."
"No," she said, withdrawing her hand, quietly.
"You'll have plenty of company," pursued Dads, leaning against the wall beside the sink and watching as she looked down concentrated upon the sight of the water running upon the dishes. "You'd like it alone?" he required of her, gently.
"Everybody'll be in court," she mused. "Mr. Clarke and that Mr. Ellison and Mr. Elmen—"
"And plenty of ladies. . . . Miss Lola Nesson," Dads particularized, observing Joan with exceeding closeness.
"Yes. . . . He told me he was wrong, all wrong, Dads."
"Ketlar?"
"No; it was about Ket he was wrong; Mr. Clarke, I mean. He was under the car," related Joan Daisy, suddenly seized with need to talk, although with every one else she had begged off mention of the matter. So she told how Mr. Clarke had called her back, after she had started from the car, to tell her that he had been wrong. "That was funny, wasn't it? Especially in him; for if any one can keep things inside himself, that man can. You'd have thought he'd have figured this would keep
