"I reached home about two and went at once to my wife’s room. She was in a hysterical state and I stayed with her an hour or so trying to quiet her. When she was better I retired to my own apartment and at seven called up Walter Mills, a detective in New York, telling him to come to Longwood as soon as he could. By this time I was uneasy, not that I had any suspicion of a real tragedy, but the disappearance of Miss Hesketh alarmed me. I met Mills at the train and told him the situation and that I intended telephoning to Fiske at Bloomington, thinking they might have reached there by some other way. It was his suggestion that before any step was taken which might make the matter public, it would be well to communicate with Firehill and see if the servants knew anything. I did this and to my amazement learned that Reddy was there." That is all of the Doctor’s testimony that I need put down as the rest of it you know. It left us in a sort of mixed-up surprise. No one could have told it better, no one could have been more sure about it or more quiet and natural. _But_—it seems like I ought to write that word in the biggest letters to give the idea of how it stood out in my mind. Of all the stories it was the strangest and it was so _awfully_ pat. I don’t know how you feel about it, reading it as I’ve written it here, but I can say for myself, listening and watching that man tell it, I couldn’t seem to believe it. It was near to evening, the room getting dusk and the fire showing up large and bright when the jury brought in their verdict: "The deceased met her death at the hands of a person or persons unknown." I walked back up Maple Lane. The night was setting in cold and frosty. The clouds had drawn off, the air was clear as crystal and full of the sounds of motor horns. Big and little cars passed me, jouncing over the ruts and swinging round the bend where the pine stood. I was looking up at it, black like a skeleton against the glow in the West, when a step came up behind me and a voice said: "You’re a good witness, Miss Morganthau." It was that fresh kid Babbitts and I wasn’t sorry to have him join me as I was feeling as if I’d been sitting in a tomb. He was serious too, not a wink about him now, his eyes on the ground, his hands dug down in the pockets of his overcoat. "A strange case, isn’t it?" he said. "Awful strange," I answered. "If it wasn’t for your story of that man on the ’phone I think they’d arrest Dr. Fowler to-night." "Didn’t you believe what he said?" I wasn’t going to give away my thoughts any more than I’d been willing to give away what I heard on the wire. And it seemed that he was the same, for he answered slow and thoughtful: "I’m not saying what I believe or don’t believe, or maybe it’s better if I say I’m not ready yet to believe or disbelieve anything,"—then he looked up at the sky, red behind the trees, and spoke easy and careless: "They say Miss Hesketh had a good many admirers."