"Says he didn't meet Clay at all--that he didn't show up. Dad, there's
something wrong about it. Clary's in a panic about something. I'm
going to see him, no matter whether he can leave his room or not."

Whitford looked dubious. "I don't see--"

"Well, I do," his daughter cut him off decisively. "We're going to his
rooms--now. Why not? He says he's ill. All right. I'm engaged to be
married to him and I've a right to see how ill he is."

"What's in your noodle, honey? You've got some kind of a suspicion.
What is it?"

"I think Clary knows something. My notion is that he was at Maddock's
and that he's in a blue funk for fear he'll be found and named as an
accessory. I'm going to find out all he can tell me."

"But--"

She looked at her father directly, a deep meaning in the lovely eyes.
A little tremor ran through her body. "Dad, I'm going to save Clay.
That's the only thing that counts."

Her words were an appeal, a challenge. They told him that her heart
belonged to the friend in prison, and they carried him back somehow to
the hour when the nurse first laid her, a tiny baby, in his arms.

His heart was very tender to her. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."