As I ran up the piazza steps the hall clock chimed out a single note, half-past ten—I had plenty of time. I called to Dixon to order the motor—I was going to town—whisked into the telephone closet, and made the connection. The voice that answered lifted me up out of the depths—for I guessed it was Willitts by the dialect, English, with the "H’s" hanging on sort of loose and wobbly. To make sure I asked, and it answered, smooth as a summer sea—yes, I was talking to Mr. Ferguson’s valet, Willitts. Mr. Ferguson was not at ’ome, ’ed gone to the city to be away a day or two. Was there any message? There wasn’t—you could bet on that—and I eased off in a high-class society drawl. With a deep breath I dropped back to normal, smoothed my feathers, powdered my nose, and when the motor came round looked like a shy little nursery governess, snitching a day off in town. It was at the station that something happened which ended my peaceful state and gave me an experience I’ll remember as long as I live. Just as I was stepping on the train I took a glance back along the platform and there, close behind me, dressed as neat as a tailor’s dummy, was Willitts with a bag in his hand. He didn’t notice me, and if he had he wouldn’t have known me, for I’d only passed him once in the village and then he wasn’t looking my way. I mounted up the steps and went into the car. From the tail of my eye I saw him in the doorway and when he’d taken the seat in front of me, I dropped against the back of mine, saying to myself: "Hully Gee, he’s _going_!" All the way into town, I sat with my eyes on his hat, thinking what I’d better do. There was one thing certain—that stood out like the writing on the wall—I mustn’t let him out of my sight. Where he went I’d have to go, tight as a barnacle I’d have to stick to that desperado. I tried to think how I could get a message to the Whitneys’ office, but I didn’t see how I was going to find the time or the opportunity. If the worst came to the worst I could call a cop, but if I knew anything of men like Willitts, he’d keep a watch out like a warship for periscopes, for anything that wore brass buttons and connected with the law. The "Penn" station was as hot as a Turkish bath and through it you can imagine me, trying to trip light and airy, and keeping both eyes as tight as steel rivets on that man’s back. I’ve never shadowed anybody—it’s not been included in my college course—all I knew was I mustn’t lose him and I mustn’t get him suspicious, and if you’re making away with a fortune in a handbag, suspicion ought to be your natural state. So I trailed after him as far in the rear as I dared, sometimes, a gang rushing for a train coming in between us, sometimes the space clear with him hurrying to the exit and me sort of loitering and gawking up at the maps on the ceiling.