"The man didn’t know exactly. He said he thought in a few days." We walked down the street silent and thoughtful. The only feeling I had at first was disappointment. I didn’t get the whole thing clear as Babbitts did. It came on him all in a minute, he told me afterward. We were on Broadway as light as day with the signs and people walking by us and crowding in between us as if they were hurrying to catch trains. I felt Babbitts’ hand go round my arm, steering me into a side street. It was darker there and there were only a few passers-by. We slackened up and still with his hand around my arm, he bent his face down toward my ear and said low, as if he was afraid someone was listening: "Kiddo, are you on?" "To what?" "Cokesbury. Don’t you get it? He won’t answer the phone." "Do you mean he won’t answer at all?" "Not unless it’s someone he knows. He’s got his clerks in the office holding the fort and his servants at home." We were just under a lamp and I stopped with my mouth falling open, for sudden, like a flash of light, it came to me. "Soapy!" I gasped and wheeled round on him. His face bent down toward me, was intent like a hunting dog’s when it sees a bird, his eyes, bright and fixed, looking straight into mine. "You’ve made the first real discovery in this case, Molly Morganthau. Cokesbury’s scared, d——d scared, so scared he’s lost his nerve and is lighting out to Europe." We walked round into Bryant Park and sat down on a bench. We were so excited we didn’t notice anything—that I’d grabbed Babbitt’s hand and kept hold of it, that it was freezing cold, that we’d got on a bench with a drunk all huddled up on the other end. We were as certain as if he’d confessed it that Cokesbury was the Unknown Voice and that he’d killed Sylvia Hesketh. We just brushed his alibi aside as if he’d never made one and planned how I was to hear him before he got away to Europe. We laid plots there in the dark, sitting close together to keep warm, with the drunk all lopped over and muttering to himself on the seat beside us. When Babbitts left me at the Ferry we’d fixed it that he was to call me up the next day and tell me what he’d done in town and I was to tell him what I’d accomplished at my end of the line. The next morning I tried Cokesbury’s office with the same results. At one Babbitts called me and said he’d tried twice to get him as a test and been told that Mr. Cokesbury wasn’t down to-day and his whereabouts were unknown. By inquiries at the steamship offices he’d found that Our Suspect—that’s what we called him on the wire—had taken passage on the _Caronia_ for the following Saturday. That was four days off—four days to hear the man who wouldn’t answer the phone.