Babbitts didn’t get home till late that night, but I was so full of what Iola had said that I waited up for him. When he did come, he hadn’t but one kiss, when I pulled away from him and told him. "Doesn’t it seem to you, Soapy," I said, "that that story ought to go back to Mr. Whitney?" He looked at me sideways with a sly, questioning glance. "Why?" he asked. "Why, if Barker’s in love with her don’t you think maybe he’ll try and creep back or get in touch with her some way?" He burst out laughing. "Oh, Morningdew, there’s a lot of nice things about you, but one of the nicest is that you never disappoint a fellow. I was wondering if you’d see it. Go back to Mr. Whitney? It’ll go back the first thing tomorrow morning and you’ll take it." CHAPTER V MOLLY TELLS THE STORY The next morning Babbitts and I started out for the offices of Whitney & Whitney. They’re far downtown, near Wall Street, way up in the top of a skyscraper where the air is good even in summer. I’d been in them before, and it was funny as we shot up in the elevator to think of those first visits, when I was so scared of Mr. Whitney—"the chief," as Jack Reddy calls him, and it’s his name all right. We were shown right into his office, like we’d come with a million-dollar lawsuit, and when he saw me he got up and held out his big, white hand. "Well, well, Molly! How’s the smartest girl in New York?" Then he looked from me to Babbitts with a twinkle in his eye. "She’s looking fine, my boy. You’ve taken good care of her." And then back to me, "Treats you well, eh? If he _doesn’t_—remember—Whitney & Whitney’s services are yours to command." That’s the way he is, always glad to see you, always with his joke. But, there’s another side to him—a sort of terrible, fierce quiet—I’ve seen it and—Gee whiz! If he ever got after me the way I once saw him get after a man he thought was guilty I’d crawl under the table and die right there on the carpet. He isn’t a bit good-looking—a big, clumsy sort of man, stoop-shouldered, and with a head of rough gray hair and eyes set deep under bushy brows. When he questions you those eyes look at you kind and pleasant—but, _forget it_! There’s not a thing they don’t see. _You_ think your face is solid flesh and blood. It is to most—but to Mr. Whitney it’s no more than a pane of glass. His son George—he was there and Jack Reddy too—doesn’t favor his father. He’s an awful stylish chap, with blond hair sleeked down on his skull, and glasses set pert on the bridge of his nose. They say he’s smart, but not as big as the old man, and he hasn’t got the same genial, easy way. But he’s always very cordial to us, and even if he wasn’t his father’s son and a close friend of Jack Reddy’s, I guess I’d like him anyhow.