"It just came to me a few moments ago—as I was passing by here—that the prettiest and smartest hello girl in New York mightn’t have gone home yet," he said. Now if you’re experienced about men—and take it from me hello girls _are_—you never believe a word a chap like Tony Ford hands out. But hearing those words and looking at his broad, conceited face, it came to me that these were true. He’d been passing, suddenly thought of me, and dropped in to see if I was there. "Well," I answered, "here I am. What of it?" "First of it," he said, "is how long are you going to be there?" "Till I get this satchel closed," I said and pressing hard on the catch it snapped shut. "And second of it," he went on, "is where are you going afterward?" My first thought was I was going to get away from _him_ as fast as the Interborough System could take me—and then I had a second thought. Why had Tony Ford dropped in so opportune at my closing hour? To ask me to dinner. And why couldn’t I, hired to do work for Whitney & Whitney, do a little extra for good measure? I knew they wanted to hear Ford’s own account of what he did the evening of January fifteenth, but that they couldn’t get it. What was the matter with me, Molly Babbitts, getting it for them? It flashed into my head like lightning and it didn’t flash out again. Frightened? Not a bit! Keyed up though—like your blood begins to run quick. I’d taken some risky dares in my time but it was a new one on me to dine with a murderer. But honest, besides the pleasure of doing something for the old man, there was a creepy sort of thrill about it that strung up my nerves and made me feel like I was going to shoot Niagara in a barrel. "Going home, eh?" said he. "It’s a long, cold ride home." "That’s the first truth you’ve said," I answered. "And for showing me you can do it I’ll offer you my grateful thanks." I began to put on my gloves, he standing in the doorway watching. "To break the journey with a little bit of dinner might be a good idea." "It might," I said, "if anybody had it." "I have it. I’ve had it all day." "What’s the good of having it if you haven’t got the price." I picked up my satchel and looked cool and pitying at him. "Unless you’re calculating to take me to the bread line." "There you wrong me," he answered. "Nothing but the best for you," and putting his hand into his vest pocket he drew out a roll of bills, folding them back one by one and giving each a name, "Canvas back, terrapin, champagne, oyster crabs, alligator pears, anything the lady calls for." Those greenbacks, flirted over so carelessly by his strong, brown fingers, gave me the horrors. Blood money! I drew back. If he hadn’t been blocking up the entrance, I think I’d have quit it and made a break for the open. He glanced up and saw my face, and I guess it looked queer. "What are you staring so for? They’re not counterfeit."