"Ah, locked," said O’Mally, calm as a summer sea. "Was that her custom?" "Not as far as I knew. I’d never found it locked before. It gave me an uneasy feeling for I thought she might have suspected what I was doing and turned the key against any invasion of her particular sanctum. She was no fool and might have caught on. So I fixed up the papers as I found them and left the office. You know what time _that_ was, or you do if you read of the Harland suicide. I’ve always supposed the poor chap was up that side corridor as I stood there waiting for the car." Babbitts bent over his notebook scribbling—he had to hide his face. He told me he thought the expression on it of stunned, crestfallen blankness would have given him away to an idiot. Waiting with their ears stretched to hear a confession of murder—and _this_ was what they got! And the man wasn’t lying. Every word he’d said matched with the facts we’d been worming and digging to find. He couldn’t possibly have known murder had been discovered—he hadn’t any suspicion a murder had been committed. The great revelation, that was to have broken on the public with an explosion like a dynamite bomb, was that Tony Ford was Harland’s paid spy. "Well," he said, looking at O’Mally, "what have you got to say? Go ahead with it if it’ll give you any satisfaction. Only you needn’t waste your breath. I know, without being told, that it’s a rotten, dirty business." O’Mally, his face as red as the harvest moon, pulled at his mustache looking thoughtful. But, sore as he must have been—you’d have to know O’Mally to realize what his disappointment was—he answered cool and easy: "I ain’t got anything to say. It’s not my job to train the young. You’ve told me what I wanted to know—that’s all I’m here for." Ford turned to Babbitts and asked him to get some letters off the table and then went on to O’Mally: "How did you come to find it out?" Babbitts, gathering up the letters, cocked his head to listen, wondering how O’Mally was going to get out of it. But you couldn’t phaze that veteran. "Several ways—you see what we’re after is Johnston Barker. It’s the Copper Pool that owns us, and nosing round in our quiet little way we got on to the Barker-Whitehall affair and from that followed the scent to that legacy of yours. We didn’t altogether believe in that uncle up-state—thought maybe he was Johnston Barker in private life, and that you might know something," he gave a lazy, good-humored laugh. "Got fooled all round. I don’t mind telling you now that the way we happened on Sammis was pure accident. Thought he was Barker and had him shadowed. He looked like enough to him to have been his brother."