The facts that the man had been struck
down by a chair and that her friend claimed, according to the paper,
that the gunman had fired two shots, buttressed the solution offered by
Whitford. But the horror of it was too strong for her. Against reason
her soul protested that Clay could not have killed a man. It was too
horrible, too ghastly, that through the faults of others he should be
put in such a situation.
And why should her friend be in such a place unless he had been trapped
by the enemies who were determined to ruin him? She knew he had a
contempt for men who wasted their energies in futile dissipations. He
was too clean, too much a son of the wind-swept desert, to care
anything about the low pleasures of indecent and furtive vice. He was
the last man she knew likely to be found enjoying a den of this sort.
"Dad, I'm going to him," she announced with crisp decision.
Her father offered no protest. His impulse, too, was to stand by the
friend in need. He had no doubt Clay had killed the man, but he had a
sure conviction it had been done in self-defense.
"We'll get the best lawyers in New York for him, honey," he said.
"Nobody will slip anything over on Lindsay if we can help it."
"Will they let us see him? Or shall we have to get permission from
some one?"
"We'll have to get an order. I know the district attorney. He'll do
what he can for me, but maybe it'll take time."
Beatrice rose, strong again and resilient.
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