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."

CHAPTER XXX

BEE MAKES A MORNING CALL

Their chauffeur broke the speed laws getting them to the apartment
house for bachelors where Bromfield lived.

His valet for once was caught off guard when he opened the door to
them. Beatrice was inside before he could quite make up his mind how
best to meet this frontal attack.

"We came to see Mr. Bromfield," she said.

"Sorry, Miss. He's really quite ill. The doctor says--"

"I'm Miss Whitford. We're engaged to be married. It's very important
that I see him."

"Yes, Miss, I know."

The man was perfectly well aware that his master wanted of all things
to avoid a meeting with her. For some reason or other, Bromfield was
in a state of collapse this morning the valet could not understand.
The man's business was to protect him until he had recovered. But he
could not flatly turn his master's fiancee out of the apartment. His
eye turned to Whitford and found no help there. He fell back on the
usual device of servants.

"I don't really think he can see you, Miss. The doctor has specially
told me to guard against any excitement. But I'll ask Mr. Bromfield
if--if he feels up to it."

The valet passed into what was evidently a bedroom and closed the door
behind him. There was a faint murmur of voices.

"I'm going in now," Beatrice announced abruptly to her father.

She moved forward quickly, before Whitford could stop her, whipped open
the door, and stepped into the room. Her father followed her
reluctantly.

Clarendon, in a frogged dressing-gown, lay propped up by pillows.
Beside the bed was a tray, upon which was a decanter of whiskey and a
siphon of soda. His figure seemed to have fallen together and his
seamed face was that of an old man. But