It was the thick of the rush hours and we were in the thick of the rush. Like we were leaves on a raging torrent we were whirled through the gate, swept on to the platform and carried into the car. Then the conductor came and pressed on us, leaned and squeezed, and when he’d mashed us in, slid the door shut for fear we’d burst out and flood the platform. Troop got hold of a strap and I got hold of Troop, and, dangling together like a pair of chickens hung up to grow tender, I opened on the familiar subject of the Harland suicide. It wasn’t as hard as I thought, for what with people clawing their way out and prying their way in, questions and answers were bound to be straight, with no trimmings. "Where were you when it happened?" I said, getting a jiujitsu grip on the front of his coat. "In the car, halfway down. Didn’t know a thing till I got to the ground floor and saw the stampede." "What did you do?" "Ran for the street—forgot my job, forgot there was only one car running, forgot everything and made a break. Every passenger did the same—seized us all same as a panic, all racin’ and hollerin’. I was right behind Mr. Ford." It was sooner than I’d expected. The jump I gave was lost in that crush, just as the look that started out on my face wouldn’t be noticed, or, if it was, be set down to a stamp on my toe. "Was he in the car with you?" "Yes, I’d just gone up to the seventeenth floor for him. Here, you want to get a firm holt on me or you’ll be swep’ away." "I’m holding," I gasped, and believe me I was, for a line of people coming out like a bit of the Johnstown Flood was like to tear me loose from my moorings. "Then he must have been in the elevator when Harland jumped?" "That’s it. It was his ring brought me up to the seventeenth floor. He got in and it was while we was goin’ down the body fell. Struck the street a few minutes before we reached the bottom." We were whizzing through the blackness of the tunnel to Times Square. The overflow that had drained off at Forty-second Street had loosened things up a little. I unwrapped myself from around Troop, taking hold of the strap over his hand, and pigeonholing what he’d said. In that boiling pack of people I was cold and shivery down the spine. "Did Mr. Ford run out in the street like the rest?" "_Did_ he? He done a Marathon! I couldn’t make a dint on the crowd, but he shoved through, and when he come back he was all broke up. ’What do you make of that?’ says he. ’There’s a man committed suicide and they say it’s Rollings Harland.’" "Broke up! I shouldn’t wonder. He was in the office late wasn’t he—till half-past six?" "He was _that_ night, and he _had_ been once or twice before this last month. Told me he was working overtime, though if you’d asked _me_ I’d have said he wasn’t the kind to do more than his salary called for." "No," I said, thinking hard underneath. "Seems sort of loaferish."