give me coffee on a burner and rolls under a silver cover?"
"That is the service of this hotel," said Calvin.
"But why do I get it? If you believe I'm guilty with Mr. Ketlar, why don't you put me in jail? If I'm not guilty, why'm I not free?"
"Sit down," ordered Calvin, insisting upon his way with her. She was shaking, and he wanted her to be comfortable. "Sit down and eat something. Drink some coffee, anyway."
"Will you have some?" she asked, obeying him. He saw that she had two cups, and the coolness of her evident plan surprised him so that he asked, "Did you order that for me?"
"No; they just came. But Mrs. Hoswick had something earlier; she doesn't want anything now. Did you have something?"
"No," admitted Calvin.
"I thought not. You want cream and sugar?" She was pouring a cup for him.
"Neither; nor coffee, either, thank you."
"With me, you won't," she said, her cheeks flushing red under their rouge, "because you think I—murdered."
"No," he denied quickly—too quickly for him. "I've eaten with murderers often." And at the deeper, crimson stain in her cheeks and spreading over her white forehead, he said: "I don't think you murdered."
"You think I merely—helped in it."
Calvin glanced about to Eller who dutifully was recording by shorthand in his book.
"What did you send for me for?" Calvin questioned her sternly, when he confronted her again.
"I want to see Ket—Mr. Ketlar!"
"I've told you you can't yet."
"Where are you holding him?" she persisted and when
