"Could I see him later, perhaps? It's about five-thirty now. Would six o'clock suit?"
"Why do you annoy him?" she asked wearily. "I told you that he has nothing to do with this awful affair."
"The public thinks he has, and in a way, through your knowing Mrs. Chapman, it's true. Anyhow, I'm authorized to make him a proposition with dollars in it. Our Sunday editor is willing to let him name his own figure for a column interview and a sketch of the Wilkes girl, in any medium he likes, which he can knock off from our own photographs. We got some rattling good snap-shots just as she was taken into custody."
Jean stared blankly into his enthusiastic face.
"Taken into custody?" she said. "The Wilkes girl! You mean—on suspicion—of murder!"
"Haven't you seen the afternoon editions?" cried the man, incredulously. "You don't say you haven't heard about the new figure in the case, the Fourteenth Street music-hall favorite, Stella Wilkes! It was Chapman's divorced wife who put the police on the scent. She'd spotted them together, and the janitor of the Wilkes girl's flat-house identified Chapman as a man who'd been running there after her. Of course by itself, that's no evidence of guilt; but they've unearthed more than that. One of the clever men of our staff got hold of a letter which the girl wrote Chapman. The police are holding it back, but it's a threat of some kind, and strong enough to warrant them gathering her in for the grand jury's consideration. But let me send up a hall-boy with the latest. I'll try again at six for Mr. Atwood."
Stella! Stella accused of the murder! She pressed her hands to her dizzy head and groped back to the studio. Could fate devise a more ironic jest! Stella, wrecker of Amy's happiness, herself dragged down! Then, her brain clearing, her personal responsibility overwhelmed her. She alone had received Amy's confession. She alone could vouch for Stella's innocence. She must dip her hands again into this defiling pitch, endure more publicity, risk exposure, humiliate Craig! And for Stella—byword of Shawnee Springs, fiend who had made the refuge twice a hell, terror of her struggle to live the dark past down—of all human creatures, Stella Wilkes!
But it must be done. She made herself ready for the street with benumbed fingers, till the thought of Craig again arrested her. Should she wait for him?
He entered as she hesitated.
"Rested, Jean?" he called cheerily, delaying a moment in the hall. "Here are your papers. The boy said you wanted them." Then, from the threshold, "You're ill!"