In the middle of it the clerk who had met us at the Ferry came softly in, and without a word, beckoned us to follow him through a door that led into another room. We rose up as stealthily as burglars and stole across the carpet without making so much as a creak or a rustle. When we were in he shut the door, told us to wait there, and left us. We sat, afraid to speak, staring at each other and wondering what was going to happen next. In a few minutes the door opened and Mr. Whitney came in. "Well?" he said, turning to me, "are you as sure as you were over the phone?" "Certain," I answered. "It’s the man." He looked at Mrs. Cresset. "How about you, Mrs. Cresset? Remember, a mistake in a matter like this is a pretty serious thing." Mrs. Cresset was as sure as I was. "I couldn’t tell the man from Adam," she said, "but I knew his voice the minute I heard it." "Very well. Now I want you to come into the private office. Don’t be frightened; nothing disagreeable’s going to happen. All you have to do is to answer simply and truthfully any questions I may put to you. Come along." We followed him up the passage to the room where he’d been talking. Sitting in a large chair by the desk was the man I’d seen that day in the woods with Sylvia Hesketh. He didn’t look so robust and hearty as he had then; his skin was paler and his forehead lined; but I noticed his large coarse hands with the hair on them—a murderer’s hands—_they_ were the same. When he saw us, walking in solemn behind Mr. Whitney, his face changed. It’s hard to explain how it looked, but it was as if the muscles tightened up and the eyes got a fixed startled expression like you see in the eyes of an animal you’ve come on sudden and scared. He rose to his feet and I saw one of his hands close till the knuckles turned white. Mr. George Whitney, who was standing near by, watched him like a cat watching a mouse. Old Mr. Whitney spoke up as genial as if he was introducing us at a party. "These ladies, Mr. Cokesbury, come from Longwood and its vicinity. Miss Morganthau is one of the operators in the Telephone Exchange, and Mrs. Cresset you’ve met before, I think, one night at Cresset’s Farm." Mrs. Cresset bowed very polite and made as if she was going to shake hands. But Cokesbury didn’t meet her half or a quarter way. He turned to the men and—I guess he did it without knowing—looked like lightning from one to the other—a sort of wild glance. They never took their eyes off him, and there was something awful about their stare, for all both of them were behaving so pleasant. Under that stare he got as white as a sheet, but he tried to put up a bluff. "Cresset," he said, "Cresset? There’s some mistake. I never saw her before in my life." "That’s quite true," said Mr. Whitney, "you didn’t see her nor she you. If you remember it was very dark. But you spoke to her and she’s willing to swear that yours was the voice she heard. Aren’t you, Mrs. Cresset?"