had converted her bed into a couch before she had left; and finally he spied the note on the desk which was addressed "Dads."
He read:
"I'm not here, because somebody shot Adele Ketlar to-night; and, Dads, the police came for Fred. They think he did it; but I know he didn't. I've been telling them so, but they're going to take him away and they'll take me, too.
"A Mr. Clarke, from the state's attorney's office, is giving the orders. He says he's simply sending me to a hotel, but he hasn't told me which yet. He says he'll let you know later. He hasn't hurt me and he won't, I think; but I don't think he'll believe me, either, though I've been telling him the truth. Dads, you tell him the truth—just the truth, when they ask you about it.
"I'll be all right; don't worry mamma, Dads; and don't you worry.
Hastily Dads concealed this at the complaint from the next room, "Where is Daisy, poppa?"
"She seems to have stepped out, m'darling," he called, reassuringly. "Merely stepped out somewhere."
"I want her."
"I'll look her up immediately, m'darling," Dads promised, soothingly; but as soon as he made sure that his wife was not stirring from her bed, he held Joan's letter in trembling hands and reread it.
Ketlar's wife shot, and Ketlar and Joan "held" for it! This was an affair of far graver and less compoundable character than the offenses with which he dwelt familiarly. Shot! Killed, that meant, undoubtedly. A matter of murder.
What had Joan and Ketlar been doing last night? He tried to recall. What had Joan told him?
