Then I knew it was all right and we three got into a taxi. On the way across to Broad Street he told us what we were to do. It was nothing much. All Mr. Whitney wanted of us was that we’d sit in the inner office and listen to some gentleman talking in the next room. If we heard the voice I’d got on the wire and Mrs. Cresset had heard the night of the murder we were to say nothing, but sit perfectly still till we were called. "If you recognize the voice make no sign or sound. All we ask of you is, if you’re not certain of the identification, to say so." The office was a great big place, rooms opening out of rooms, and a switchboard with a girl at it, dressed very neat and not noticing us as we passed her. Mr. George Whitney met us and took us into a room furnished fine with leather armchairs and books all up the walls and a wide window looking out over the roofs and skyscrapers. There was a door at one side, and this he opened a crack and told Mrs. Cresset to sit down close to it with me opposite. He cautioned us to be quiet and not to move or even whisper till we were called. We sat there for a while with nothing happening. We could hear voices, and now and then people walking and doors shutting, and once a bell tinkled far off in the distance. Then suddenly I heard someone—Mr. George Whitney, I think—say, "Show him in, the private office," and heavy steps coming up the passage, past our door and into the next room, then old Mr. Whitney’s voice, very loud and cheerful. "Ah, Mr. Cokesbury, this is truly kind of you. I have to apologize for taking up your time, just as you’re leaving, too, but we hoped you might help us in some minor points of this curious case." The voice that answered was Cokesbury’s; I knew it well now. At the sound of it Mrs. Cresset gave a start and leaned forward, her ear close to the door. He was as cordial and hearty as if he was at a pink tea. "Only too glad to be of service, Mr. Whitney. If I had thought I could be of any help I would have offered before. Fortunately for me—as you probably know—I was held up in my place on the day of the murder. If my car had been in working order I suppose I’d have been quite a prominent figure in the case by now." He laughed out, a deep, rich sort of laugh, and it made my flesh creep to think he could do it with that girl’s death at his door. The talk went on for a bit, back and forth between them, Mr. Whitney asking him some questions about the roads, the distances, and Miss Hesketh’s friends; he answering as calm and fluent as if he’d hardly known her at all.