That settled the question as far as the police and the general public went. That the watch and chain were not touched nor the few dollars in the desk drawer was pointed to as positive proof that Ford’s assailant was no common sneak thief or second-story man. He was not wasting his time on small change or articles difficult to dispose of. For a few days the police hunted for him, but not a trace of him was to be found. "An old hand," they had it, "dropped back into the darkness of the underworld." There was not a detective or reporter in New York who connected that half-seen figure, stealing by night into a cheap lodging house, with the financier whose disappearance had been the nine days’ wonder of the season. On Wednesday evening Babbitts brought the letters to the Whitney office (we were all there but Molly), and we sat round the table passing the papers from hand to hand. One was on a sheet of Harland’s business stationery and was in Harland’s writing, which both George and the chief knew. It was dated January second, and ran as follows: _Dear Ford_, Excellent. If possible, I’ll try to see you tomorrow. I’ll be going down to lunch about one. Yours, H. H. As a document in the case it had no especial value, beyond confirming the fact that Ford was—as he had told Molly—on friendly terms with the lawyer. The others were of vital significance. They were on small oblongs of white paper, the finely nicked upper edge indicating they had been attached to a writing tablet. Both were in ink, and in the same hand, rapid and scratchy, the words trailing off in unfinished scrawls. Neither had any address, but both bore dates: one December 27 and the other January 10. Here is the first: _December 27._ _Dear Girl_, Thanks for your note. Things begin to look more encouraging. That I must stand back and let you do so much—win our way by your cleverness and persuasion—is a trial to my patience. But my time will come later. J. W. B. The signature was a hurried scratch. Babbitts said the police had glanced at the letter, set it down as the copy of a note Ford had written to some girl, and thrown it aside. Those half-formed initials might have been anything to the casual, uninterested eye. The second, dated January 10, was a little longer: _Dearest_, I hoped to see you today but couldn’t make it. So our end seems to be in sight—at last approaching after our planning and waiting. What a sensation we’re going to make! But it won’t touch us. We’re strong enough to dare anything when our happiness is the stake. J. W. B. We agreed with O’Mally when he sized these letters up as copies in Ford’s hand—he had samples of it—of notes written by Barker to Carol Whitehall. The reason for Ford’s taking them was not hard to guess with our knowledge of the gunman’s character.