My plan was perfectly simple. From what I had seen myself and heard from Anne Hennessey I was sure I knew every lover that Sylvia had had. I was going to call each one of them up on the phone and listen to their voices, and I wasn’t going to tell a soul about it. Everybody would say—just as you say as you read this—"but all those men gave satisfactory alibis." I knew that as well as anyone, but it didn’t cut any ice with me, I didn’t care what they’d proved. I was going to hear their voices and see for myself. If I was successful, then I’d tell Babbitts and have him advise me what to do. I’d heard Jack Reddy had retained Mr. Wilbur Whitney, the great criminal lawyer, but I wouldn’t have known whether to go to him or the police or the District Attorney and if I did it at all I wanted to do it right. Now that there were three of us in the Exchange my holiday had been changed to Monday, and I made up my mind not to put my plan into execution till that day. I didn’t want to be hurried, or confused, by possible interruptions, and also I wanted to hear the voices at short range and could do that better from the city. I telephoned over to Babbitts that I’d be in town Monday to do some shopping, and he made a date to meet me at the entrance of the Knickerbocker Hotel and dine with me at some joint near Times Square. Monday morning I was up bright and early and dressed myself in my best clothes. From the telephone book I got the numbers of the four men who were known to have been Sylvia’s lovers and admirers—Carisbrook, Robinson, Dunham and Cokesbury. I had found out from Anne what their businesses were and I had no trouble in locating them. With the slip of paper in my purse I took the ten-twenty train and was in town before midday. On the way over I worked out what I’d say to each of them. I was going to ask Carisbrook, who was a soft, dressed-up guy, if he knew where Mazie Lorraine, a manicure who’d once been in the Waldorf, had moved to. It was nervy but I wanted to give him a dig, he having put on airs and treated me like a doormat. Robinson was easy—he had a common name and I’d got the wrong man. Excuse _me_, please, awful sorry. Dunham was a lawyer and I was a dressmaker that a customer wouldn’t pay. And Cokesbury was easy, too—I’d heard Cokesbury Lodge was for rent and was looking for a country place. I got Carisbrook first and he was as mad as a hornet. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. _Manicure_? I don’t know any manicure called Lorraine or anything else. I’ve never been manicured in the Waldorf—or any other hotel—in the city. The woman is a liar——" and so forth and so on, sputtering and fizzing along the wire. I had hard work not to laugh and in the middle of it I hung up, for he had a thin, high squeak on him like an old maid scared by a mouse. Robinson was a sport, I liked _him_ fine: "Don’t apologize. It’s the penalty of being called Robinson. Still there’s a bright side to every cloud. It might have been Smith, you know."