"She’s not here. I had a phone this morning to say she was sick and wouldn’t be down, and Mr. Ford’s gone out to lunch." She took me by the hand and pulled me in, shutting the door. "Jerusalem, but it’s good to see you. I’m that lonesome sitting here I’m ready to cry." She didn’t look very chipper. Usually she’s a pretty girl, the slim, baby-eyed, delicate kind, with a dash of powder on the nose and a touch of red on the lips to help out. But today she looked sort of peaked and shriveled up, the way those frail little wisps of girls do at the least jar. "Isn’t it awful?" she said as soon as she’d got me in—"Just the floor above us!" I didn’t want her to talk about it, but she was like the janitor—only a gag would stop her. So I let her run on while I looked round and took in the place. It was a fine, large room, two windows in the front and two more on the sides. The furniture was massive and rich-looking and the rugs on the floor as soft to your foot as the turf in the Park. On the walls were blue and white maps, criss-crossed with lines, and pictures of houses, in different styles. But the thing that got me was a little model of a cottage on a table by the window. It was the cutest thing you ever saw—all complete even to the blinds in the windows and the awning over the piazza. I was looking at it when Iola, having got away with the sandwich, said: "Come on in to Mr. Ford’s office while I finish my lunch. I got to get through with it before he comes back." I followed her into the next room, nearly as large as the one we’d been in, with a wide window and in the center a big roll-top desk. On the edge of this stood a pasteboard box, with some crumpled wax paper in it and an orange. Iola sat down in the swivel chair and picking up the orange began to peel it. "I hardly ever do this," she explained, "but I thought Miss Whitehall wouldn’t mind today as I felt so mean I couldn’t face going out to lunch. And then it was all right as she won’t be down and I’ll have it all cleared off before Mr. Ford comes back." "Would he be mad?" You ought to have seen the look she gave me. "Mad—Tony Ford? It’s easy seen you don’t know him. She wouldn’t say anything either. She’s awful considerate. But she’s so sort of grand and dignified you don’t like to ask favors off her." "Was she here when it happened last night?" "I don’t know, but I guess not. She generally leaves a little before six. Thanks be to goodness, she told me I could go home early yesterday. I was out of the building by half-past five." She broke the orange apart and held out a piece. "Have a quarter?" I shook my head and she went on. "We’re all out of here soon after six. Tony Ford generally stays last and shuts up. Did you see all the papers this morning?" "Most of them. Why?" "I was wondering if any of them knew that Mr. Harland and Mr. Barker were both in here yesterday afternoon." "It wasn’t in any of the papers I saw."