Beatrice hung up the receiver. Her eyes sparked. For all her slimness, she looked both competent and dangerous.
"What does he say?" her father asked.
"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.