Armed with the evidence, Moore started off for Vassalboro, Maine, where Goodridge was now living. Stopping in Augusta, he picked up Ethel Lee, a deputy sheriff, and her sister-in-law, Marjorie, a stenographer. It was twilight by the time they reached Goodridge’s Vassalboro farm. His third wife, Margaret Rose, said her husband was down the road at a church meeting. Moore found him in the white clapboard building, called him out in the middle of a hymn, and asked him to get into the car. There he displayed Doyle’s documents and asked Goodridge if he was not Erastus Corning Whitney, under indictment for larceny in Livingston County, New York. Goodridge admitted that he was. He did not dispute any of the facts that Doyle had dredged up. “Well, the game is up,” he said wearily, “and I suppose I will have to go back to New York.” He was not aware of the woman in the back seat taking shorthand notes, nor did he recognize his questioner until he said “My name is Moore.” “Glad to meet you,” Goodridge said, trying to cover up his fear with cordiality. “I’ve heard of you from San Francisco to Maine.” Moore said flatly that he was not interested in what Goodridge had or had not done in New York. All he wanted was the full story of how he had come to testify in the Dedham court, and what influence the district attorney’s office had brought to bear on him. Of course if Goodridge did not want to talk, there was the deputy sheriff in the back seat and an indictment waiting in New York. Goodridge agreed to tell his tale. He had first recognized Sacco’s picture, he said, in a newspaper. He had then shown it to a girl he knew, Lottie Packard, who worked at Rice & Hutchins. “I says to Lottie, ‘Whose picture is that?’ and she called him by name. I had the paper folded so that she couldn’t see nothing but the picture. ‘I used to work with him in a factory.’ I says, ‘That’s the fellow that was in the gang down here.’ I told Lottie never to say anything about it. I never told anyone but my wife.” Williams and Brouillard and Stewart had been after him in the autumn of 1920 to come to the Dedham jail with them, Goodridge continued, but he had always refused, telling them it was no use to take him there, that he had seen nothing and “didn’t know anything about the deal.” When he himself was arraigned in Dedham he had recognized Sacco as soon as the latter was brought into the courtroom, but he never told anyone about this. He had lied to the district attorney’s people and to the police because he did not want to get mixed up in the case. Moore came back again and again to his central question: Why had Goodridge refused to talk from September to July, and then suddenly gone on the stand and identified Sacco? Goodridge did not have any explanation. “I think I testified to the truth to the best of my ability,” he complained, “and it’s a pretty hard proposition.”