"You know," said Babbitts, "it’s queer but I keep thinking of that yarn of Jasper’s, that evening in the Gilt Edge." I drew away like he’d stuck a pin into me. "Why do you think about _that_?" I asked loud and sharp. "Why," he said, slow as if he was considering, "I suppose because it was so plausible. And I’ve been wondering if many other people have thought of it." "I guess they have," I answered kind of fierce; "there’s fools enough in the world, God knows, to think of anything. I make no doubt there’s people who’ve tried to work out that _I_ did it, the reward tempting them to lies and sin." Babbitts looked at me surprised. "What’s there to get mad about?" he asked. "I’m not for a moment suggesting that Reddy really had any hand in it. Why, he could no more have killed that girl than _I_ could kill _you_." I simmered down—it was awful sweet the way he said it. "Then you oughtn’t to be casting suspicions on an innocent man," I said, still grouchy. "Oh, you’re such a little pepper pot. Do you think for a moment I’d say this to anybody but you. Look at me!" I looked into his eyes, clear as a baby’s in the starlight. "If you believe I’m the sort of fellow who’d put a slur on Reddy I wonder you’ll come out this way and walk with me." I smiled, I couldn’t help it, and Babbitts, seeing I was all right again, tucked his hand inside my arm and we walked on, very friendly. Being ignorant of the true state of my feelings, he went straight back to the subject. "Now understand that I mean nothing against Reddy and that I’ve never said this to a soul but you, but ever since the inquest there’s been one thing that’s puzzled me—the length of time he was out that night." "He explained that," I said. "I know he did, and everybody’s accepted his explanation. But seven hours in a high-powered racing car! He could have gone to Philadelphia, taken in a show and come back." "But he told all about it," I insisted. "He did," said Babbitts, "but I’ll tell you something, Miss Morganthau—between ourselves not to go an inch farther—Reddy’s story impressed me as the undiluted truth till he got to _that_ part of it." "What do you mean?" I said, low, and being afraid I was going to tremble I pulled my arm away from him. "This—I was watching him very close, and when he began to talk about that night ride, some sort of change came over him. It was very subtle, I never heard anyone speak of it, but it seemed to me as if he was making an effort to give an impression of frankness. The rest of his testimony had the hesitating, natural tone of a man who is nervous and maybe uncertain of his facts, but when he came to that he—well, he looked to me as if he was internally bracing himself, as if he was on dangerous ground and knew it." If I’d been able to speak as well as that those were exactly the words I would have used. I cleared my throat before I answered. "Looks like to me, Mr. Babbitts, that you ought to be writing novels instead of press stories."