"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Cresset, as solid and sure as the Bartholdi statue. "This is the gentleman that asked me the way that night. I’d know his voice among a thousand." "What night?" said Cokesbury. "I don’t know what she’s talking about." It was pitiful to see him trying to keep it up with his face gray and his hands trembling. Mr. Whitney went on as if he didn’t notice anything. "And Miss Morganthau here is also ready to swear to your voice as the one she overheard on the phone Saturday, November the twentieth, in a conversation with the late Miss Hesketh—a message you’ve probably seen a good deal about in the papers." I saw one of those big, hairy hands make a grip at the back of the armchair. I thought he was going to fall and couldn’t take my eyes off him till Mr. Whitney turned to me and said in that bland society way: "Perhaps you’ll be so good, Miss Morganthau, as to tell Mr. Cokesbury of your efforts during the past week to get him on the phone." I told him the whole thing and ended up with the story of how I fooled him about the key. And, honest to God, though I thought I was talking to a murderer, I was sorry for him. All the life seemed to leave him and he got as haggard as an old man, with his lips shaking and the perspiration in beads on his forehead. When I got through he suddenly gave a sort of groan, dropped back into his chair and put his hands over his face. I was glad it was hidden, and I was glad when Mr. Whitney turned to me and Mrs. Cresset and said quick and commanding: "That’ll do. You can go into the other room. Ring the bell, George." We huddled out into the passage where we met that spry clerk coming up on the jump. He went into the office and shut the door, and we could hear a murmur of voices, we standing up against the wall not knowing what to do next. Presently the clerk came out again, rounded us up and sent us into the room down the hall where Mr. Whitney had talked to us. He told us to wait there for a minute, then lit out as if he was in a great hurry. We stood stiff in the middle of the floor, expecting to hear the tramp of policemen and then Cokesbury being dragged off to jail. But it was all very still. I never supposed when you caught a criminal the proceedings would be so natural and dignified. After a while the clerk came back. He said Mr. Whitney’d sent us his thanks for our kindness in coming—I never saw people waste so many words on politeness—and hoped we’d excuse him from thanking us in person, but he was just now very busy. He warned us not to say a word to anyone of what had transpired, and then a boy coming to the door and saying, "It’s here," he told us a taxi was waiting below to take us to the Ferry.