That was Firehill. I jacked in and the Doctor went into the booth and shut the door. The strange man stood with his hands behind him, looking out of the window. I didn’t know then that he was a detective, and I don’t think anyone ever would have guessed it. If you’d asked me I’d have said he looked more like a clerk at the ribbon counter. But that’s what he was, Walter Mills by name, engaged that morning, as we afterward knew, by the Doctor. Watching him with one eye I leaned forward very cautiously, lifted up the cam and listened in on the conversation: "Is this Gilsey?" Then Gilsey’s nice old voice, "Yes, sir. Who is it?" The Doctor’s was quick and hard: "Never mind that—it doesn’t matter. Do you happen to know where Mr. Reddy is?" My heart gave a big jump—he hadn’t caught them! They’d got away and been married! "Yes, sir, Mr. Reddy’s here." There was just a minute’s pause before the Doctor answered. In that minute all sorts of ideas went flashing through my head the way they say you see things before you drown. Then came the Doctor’s voice with a curious sort of quietness in it. "_There_, at Firehill?" "Yes, sir. Can I take any message? Mr. Reddy was out very late last night and isn’t up yet." The Doctor answered that very cordially, all the hurry and hardness gone. "Oh, that’s all right. I’ll not disturb him. No, I won’t bother with a message. I’ll call up later. Thanks very much. Good-bye." I dropped back in my chair, tapping with a pencil on the corner of the drawer and looking sideways at the Doctor as he came out of the booth. He had a queer look, his eyes keen and bright, and there was some color in his face. The strange man turned round, and the Doctor gave him a glance sharp as a razor, but all he said was: "Come on, Mills," and they went out and mounted into the car. When the door banged on them I drew a deep breath and flattened out against the chair back. They _hadn’t_ eloped! Gee, it was a relief! Not because of myself. Honest to God, that’s straight. I knew I couldn’t have him any more than I could have had the Kohinoor diamond. It was because I _knew_—deep down where you feel the truth—that Sylvia Hesketh wasn’t the girl for him to marry. That was about half-past eight. It was after ten when a message came for Mapleshade that made the world turn upside down and left me white and sick. It was from the Coroner and said that Sylvia Hesketh had been found that morning on the turnpike, murdered. Poor Mrs. Fowler took it! Anne Hennessey told me afterward that she heard her scream on the other side of the house. I heard it, too, and it raised _my_ hair—and then a lot of words coming thin and shrill along the wire. "Sylvia, my daughter—dead—murdered?" It was awful, I hate to think of it.