"Well, they were—the two of them. And I didn’t know but what the reporters, nosing round for anything the way they do, mightn’t have heard it. Not that there was anything out of the ordinary about it. She knew them both. Mr. Harland’s been in here a few times and Mr. Barker often." "Why did _he_ come?" I said, surprised, for Iola had never told me they’d the magnate for a customer. "Business," she looked at me over the orange that she was sucking, her eyes sort of intent and curious. "Didn’t I tell you that? He was going to buy a piece of land in the Azalea Woods Estates and build a house for his niece." "Seems to me," I said, "that the press’ll be interested to know about those two visits." "Well, if any reporters come snooping round here Tony Ford told me to refer them to him or Miss Whitehall, and that’s what I’m going to do." "What time was Mr. Harland here?" "A little after four. He and Miss Whitehall went into the private office and had a talk. And I’ll bet a new hat that he hadn’t no more idea of suicide then than you have now, sitting there before me. When he came out he was all smiles, just as natural and happy as if he was going home to a chicken dinner and a show afterward." "All the papers think it was what Mr. Barker said that drove him to it." "And they’re right for a change—not that I’m saying anything against the press with your husband in it. But it does make more mistakes than any printed matter _I_ ever read, except the cooking receipts on the outside of patent foods. It was Barker that put the crimp in _him_." "Then Barker came in afterward?" "Yes, just before I left. And he and she went into the private office." I turned in my chair and looked through the open doorway into the third room of the suite. "Is that the private office?" I asked. "Yes," says Iola with a giggle, "that’s its society name, but Mr. Ford calls it the Surgery." Before I could ask her why Mr. Ford called it that, the bell rang and she jumped up, squashing the orange peel and bits of paper back in the box. "Here, you go and answer it," I said, "I’ll hide this." She went into the front office and as I pushed the box out of sight on a shelf I could hear her talking to a man at the door. The conversation made me stand still listening. The man’s voice asked for Miss Whitehall, Iola answering that she wasn’t there. "Where is she?" said the man, gruff and abrupt it seemed to me. "In her own home—she hasn’t come down today at all." "Is she coming later?" "No, she’s sick in bed." There was a slight pause and then he said: "Well, I got to see her. I’ve notes here that are overdue and the endorsee’s dead." "Endorsee?" came Iola’s little pipe, full of troubled surprise, "who’s he?" "Hollings Harland who killed himself last night. What’s her address?" I could hear Iola giving it and the man muttering it over. Then there was a gruff "Good morning" and the door snapped shut. Iola came back, her eyes big, her expression wondering.