"I generally like a dash of tabasco in mine," says he, "but when it comes to the whole bottle spilled in the dish, it’s too hot. Just make a note of that against our next meeting. I don’t like being disappointed twice. Good evening." And off he went, swaggering down the hall. On the way home I wondered what Soapy’d say when I told him, but when he came in Tony Ford went straight out of my head for at last there was exciting news—Barker had been located in Philadelphia. Two people had seen him there, one a man who knew him well, and saw him the night before in a taxi, the other an Italian who kept a newsstand. That same evening between eight and nine Barker had stopped at the stand and bought several New York papers. The Italian, who was quick-witted, recognized him from his pictures in the papers, and reported to the police. "He’s evidently only going out after dark," said Babbitts. "But a man can’t hide for long whose picture’s spread broadcast over the country." "And who’s got a face like the American Eagle after it’s grown a white mustache," I answered. That was Thursday night. Friday morning I toddled down to my job, feeling there wasn’t much in it and that when I came home I’d hear Barker was landed and it would be domestic life again for little Molly. The day went by quiet and uneventful as the others had been. I read a novel and sewed at a tray cloth, and now and then jacked in for a call. It was getting on for evening and I was thinking about home and dinner when—Bang! came two calls, one right after the other, that made me feel I was earning my money. The first was at a quarter to five. Our central came sharp and clear: "Hello, Gramercy 3503—Long Distance—Philadelphia’s calling you." Philadelphia! Can you see me stiffening up, with my hand ready to raise the cam? "All right—Gramercy 3503." I could hear the girls in our central, the wait of hum and broken sounds—how well I knew it!—and then a distant voice, brisk and business-like, "Hello, Philadelphia—Waiting." Then a pause and presently the whispering jar of the wires, "Here’s your party. Gramercy 3503, all right for Philadelphia." Running over those miles and miles the voice—a man’s—came clear as a bell. "I want to speak to the Azalea Woods Estates." I made the connection, softly lifted the cam, and listened in. "Is this the office of the Azalea Woods Estates?" A woman’s voice answered, as close as if she was in the next room: "Yes—who is it?" "Is Mr. Anthony Ford there?" "No, Mr. Ford has left my employment. I am Miss Whitehall, my business is closed." There was a pause. My heart which had hit up a lively gait began to ease down. Only Tony Ford—Pshaw! "Are you there?" said the woman. "Yes," came the answer. "Could you give me his address?" "Certainly. Hold the wire for a moment." After a wait of a minute or two she was back with the address which she gave him. He repeated it carefully, thanked her and hung up.