Isabella doesn’t come on Sunday so I got my own supper and then sat down in the parlor and tried to read the papers. But I couldn’t put my mind on them. In a few days, perhaps as soon as Tuesday, the _Dispatch_ would have the Harland murder on the front page. I could see the headlines—the copy reader could spread himself—and I tried to work out how Babbitts would write it, where he’d begin—with the crime itself or with all the story that came before it. It was near eleven and me thinking of bed when there was a ring at the bell. That’s pretty late for callers, even in a newspaper man’s flat, and I jumped up and ran into the hall. After I’d jammed the push button, I opened the door, spying out for the head coming up the stairs. It came—a derby hat and a pair of broad shoulders, and then Jack Reddy’s face, raised to mine, grave and frowning. "Hello, Molly," he said. "It’s late, but I couldn’t find any of the others so I came to you." If he hadn’t seen anyone he didn’t know what had transpired. The thought made me bubble up with eagerness to tell him the new developments. That was the reason, I guess, I didn’t notice how serious he was, not a smile of greeting, not a handshake. He didn’t even take off his coat, but throwing his hat on one of the hallpegs, said: "I’ve only just got in from Buffalo. I phoned to the Whitney house from the Grand Central, but they’re both out of town, not to be back till tomorrow morning, and O’Mally’s away too. Do you know how Ford is?" "You bet I do. He’s sat up, taken nourishment and _talked_." "Talked? Have they _seen_ him?" "They have." I turned away and moved up the hall. "Come right in and I’ll tell you." I went into the dining-room where the drop light hung bright over the table, and was going on to the parlor when I heard his voice, loud and commanding, behind me: "What’s he said?" I whisked round and there he was standing by the table, his eyes fixed hard and almost fierce on me. "Won’t you come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," I said laughing, just to tease him. He answered without the ghost of a smile: "No. Go on quick. What did Ford say?" "All right." I dropped down into Babbitts’ chair and motioned him to mine. "Sit down there. It’s a long story and I can’t tell it to you if you stand in front of me like a patience on a monument." He took the chair and putting his elbows on the table, raised his hands, clasped together, and leaned his mouth on them. The light fell full on his face and over those clasped hands his eyes stared at me so fixed and steady they looked the eyes of an image. I don’t think while I told him he ever batted a lid and I know he never said a word. "So you see," I said, when I was through, "Ford’s as much out of it as you are." Without moving his hands he asked: "What do they think?" "Why, what do you suppose they think? Instead of there being three of them in it there were two." "They think she and Barker did it?"