"Yes. He’d been looking for me ever since I’d skipped but couldn’t find me. Then he saw my name in the papers after the Harland suicide. Some fool reporter spoke to me in the street that night and I told him who I was and where I worked. A short while after Sammis phoned up to the Black Eagle Building, heard from Miss Whitehall I’d left and got from her my house address." "Did he say what he was doing in Philadelphia?" "He had some new job there, he didn’t say what, but he said he was well paid. That came out in his blustering about not wanting my money." There was a pause, Babbitts and O’Mally scribbling in their note books, Ford sitting up in that hunched position, looking surly at his hands lying on the counterpane. So far every word he’d said tallied with what they already knew. Babbitts was wondering how O’Mally was going to get round to the real business of the interview, when the detective suddenly raised up from his notes, and leaning forward tapped lightly on one of Ford’s hands with the point of his pencil. "Say, Ford, how about that legacy from your uncle?" Ford gave a start, stiffened up and looked quick as a flash into the detective’s face. "What about it?" he stammered. O’Mally, his body bending forward, his pencil tip still on Ford’s hand, said with sudden, grim meaning: "_We_ know where it came from." For a second they eyed each other. Babbitts said it looked like an electric current was passing between them, holding them as still as if they were mesmerized. Then O’Mally went on, very low, each word falling slow and clear from his lips: "We know all about that money and the game you’ve been playing. This Sammis business isn’t what we’re here for. It’s the other—the Harland matter, the thing that’s been occupying your time and thoughts lately. That outside job of yours—that job that was finished on the night of January the fifteenth." He paused and Ford’s glance slid away from him, his eyes like the eyes of a trapped animal traveling round the walls of the room. "We’ve _got_ you, Ford. The whole thing’s in our hands. Your only chance is to tell—tell everything you know." In describing it to me Babbitts said that moment was one of the tensest in the whole case. Ford was cornered, you could see he knew it and you could see the consciousness of guilt in his pallid face and trembling hands. O’Mally was like a hunter that has his prey at last in sight, drawn forward to the edge of his chair, his jaw squared, his eyes piercing into Ford like gimlets. "Go ahead," he almost whispered. "What was that money paid you for?" Ford tried to smile, the ghost of that cock-sure grin distorting his face like a grimace. "I guess you’ve got the goods on me," he said. "I know when I’m beaten. You needn’t try any third degree. I’ll tell."