It had worked out just right. I had my information and here was where I got off. I thanked Troop for the ride I’d had off him, told him I’d give him his nickel tomorrow, and forging to the door like the _Oregon_ going round Cape Horn, scrambled out. Himself wasn’t at home to tell things to—it was one of his late nights—so I took a call for Mr. Whitney’s house and told him I’d got the stuff for him—_real_ stuff. He said to come down that evening at half-past eight, they’d all be there. And after a glass of milk and a soda cracker—I hadn’t time or appetite for more—out I lit, as excited as if I was going to a six-reel movie. I was late and ran panting up the steps of the big, grand house in the West Fifties. I’d been there before, and as I stood waiting in the vestibule I couldn’t but smile thinking of that other time when I was so scared, and Himself—he was "Mr. Babbitts" then—had had to jolly me up. He didn’t know me as well then as he does now, bless his dear, faithful heart! The unnatural solemn butler wasn’t on the job tonight. Mr. George opened the door for me and showed me into that same room off the hall, with the gold-mounted furniture and the pale-colored rugs and the lights in crystal bunches along the walls. A fire was burning in the grate, its red reflection leaping along the uncovered spaces of floor, polished and smooth as ice. On a center table, all gilt and glass, was a common student lamp, looking cheap and mean in that quiet, rich, glittering room, and beside it were some sheets of paper and several pencils. Old Mr. Whitney and George were there, also Jack Reddy, but O’Mally hadn’t come yet. I told them what Troop had said and they listened as silent as the grave, not batting an eye while I spoke. You didn’t have to guess at what they thought. It was in the air. The first real move had been made. When I finished, Mr. George, who had been making notes on one of the bits of paper, threw down his pencil, and gave a long, soft whistle. The old man, sitting by the fire looking into it, his hands clasped loosely together, the fingers moving round each other—which was a way he had when he was thinking—said very quiet: "Thank you, Molly—you’ve done well." "This puts Ford in the center of the stage," said Mr. George, then turning to his father, "Pretty conclusive, eh, Governor?" The old man grunted without looking up, his face in the firelight, heavy and brooding. Jack rose and leaning over Mr. George’s shoulder looked at the scribbled notes: "Left soon after the Barry girl, came back about 6.15 and went to the Azalea Woods Estates offices. That would have been about fifteen to twenty minutes after Harland. Came out about half-past six and was in the elevator when the body fell." "Positive proof that he was in the rooms with Harland," said Mr. George, "and equally positive proof he was not the man seen by the Meagher child." "Evidently two men," said Jack.