To say that the expectant Whitney office got a jolt¹ is putting it mildly. On the threshold of success, to meet such a setback² enraged³ George and made even the chief grouchy⁴. The new developments added new complications that upset their carefully elaborated theories. There had to be a readjustment. Whoever Sammis was and whatever his motive⁵ could have been it was undoubtedly⁶ he who had attacked Tony Ford⁷.  
It was inexplicable⁸ and mysterious. The chief had an idea that there was a connection between Sammis and Barker, that the man now dead might have been "planted" in Philadelphia to divert the search from the live man, who had stolen to safety after a rise to the surface in Toronto. George scouted⁹ it; an accidental likeness¹⁰ had fooled them and made them waste valuable time. The devil was on the side of Barker, taking care of his own.
 
It did look that way. Investigation¹¹ of the few clues we had led to nothing. The tailor, whose bill was found in Sammis's pocket, remembered selling a suit and overcoat to a man called Sammis on January tenth. He was a quiet, polite old party who looked poor and shabby but bought good clothes and paid spot cash for them. The typewritten letter indicated that Sammis had been sent to Philadelphia and well paid for some work that had not yet started. It was upon this letter the chief based his contention¹² that Sammis's appearance in the case was not a coincidence—he was another of Barker's henchmen, and it was part of Barker's luck that at the crucial moment he should have died.
 
But it was all speculation¹³, nothing certain except that we had lost our man again. Philadelphia had dropped out as a point of interest and the case swung back to New York, where it now centered round the bed of Tony Ford.
 
We were in constant communication with the hospital and on Thursday received word that Ford would recover. That lifted us up from the smash of Wednesday night. When he was able to speak we would hear something—everything if he could be scared into a full confession¹⁴. The hospital authorities refused to let anyone see him till he was perfectly¹⁵ fit, a matter of several days yet. That suited us, as we wanted no speech with him till he was strong enough to stand the shock of our knowledge. Caught thus, with his back against the wall, we expected him to make a clean breast of it.
 
The enforced waiting was—to me anyway—distracting. With the hope I'd had of Barker gone, I was now looking to Ford. He must, he could exonerate¹⁶ her, there wasn't the slightest doubt of it. But to have to wait for it, to be cool and calm, to get through the next few days—I felt like a man caught in the rafters of a burning building, trying to be patient while they hacked¹⁷ him out.
 
After the news from the hospital the temperature of the office fell to an enforced normal. O'Mally went back to his burrow¹⁸ and Babbitts to his paper with his big story still in the air. That night in my place, I measured off the sitting room from eight till twelve—five strides from the bookcase to the window, seven from the fire to the folding doors.
 
If I could only induce her to speak, if she herself would only clear up the points that were against her, there was still a chance of getting her out of it before Ford opened up. That she had something to hide, some mystery in connection with her movements that night, some secret understanding with Barker, even I had to admit. But whatever it was it would be better to reveal it than to go on into the fierce white light that would break over the Harland case within a week.
 
In that midnight pacing I tried to think of some way I could force her to tell—to tell me, but the clocks chimed on and the fire died on the hearth¹⁹ and I got nowhere. She knew me so slightly, might think I was set on by the office, the very fact that I was what I was might seal her lips closer. Instead of breaking down her reticence²⁰ I might increase it, strengthen that wall of secretiveness behind which she seemed to be taking refuge like a hunted creature.
 
When I went to the office on Friday morning the chief asked me to go to Buffalo²¹ that night, to look up some witnesses in the Lytton case. It would take me all Saturday and I could get back by Sunday night or at the latest Monday morning. A phone message sent to the hospital before I came in had drawn²² the information that Tony Ford would not be able to see the Philadelphia detectives—O'Mally and Babbitts posed in that rôle—till Monday. That settled it—better to be at work out of town than hanging about cursing the slowness of the hours.
 
But the questions of the night before haunted me. Why, anyway, couldn't I go to see her? Wasn't it up to me, whether I succeeded or not, to make the effort to break through her silence—the silence that was liable to do her such deadly damage? I had to see her. I couldn't keep away from her. At lunch time I called her up and asked her if I could come. She said yes and named four that afternoon. On the stroke I was in the vestibule, pushing the button below her name, and with my heart thumping²³ against my ribs²⁴ like a steel hammer.
 
She opened the door and as I followed her up the little hall told me the servant had been sent away and her mother was out. As on that former visit she seated herself at the desk, motioning me to a chair opposite. The blinds were raised, the room flooded with the last warm light of the afternoon. By its brightness I saw that she was even paler and more worn than she had been that other time—obviously a woman harassed²⁵ and preyed²⁶ upon by some inner trouble.
 
On the way up I had gone over ways of approach, but sitting there in the quiet pretty room, so plainly the abode²⁷ of gentlewomen, I couldn't work round to the subject. She didn't give me any help, seeming to assume that I had dropped in to pay a call. That made it more difficult. When a woman treats you as if you're a gentleman, actuated by motives²⁸ of common politeness, it's pretty hard to break through her guard and pry²⁹ into her secrets.
 
She began to talk quickly and, it seemed to me, nervously³⁰, telling me how the owner of their old farm on the Azalea Woods Estates had offered them a cottage there, to which they would move next week. It was small but comfortable, originally occupied by a laborer's family who had gone away. The people were very kind, would take no rent, and she and her mother could live for almost nothing till she found work. I sympathized with the idea, she'd get away from the wear and tear of the city, have time to rest and recuperate³¹ after her recent worry. She dropped her eyes to a paper on the desk and said:
 
"Yes, I'm tired. Everything was so sudden and unexpected. I once thought I was strong enough to stand anything—but all this—"
 
She stopped and picking up a pencil began making little drawings on the paper, designs of squares and circles.
 
"It's worn you out," I said, looking at her weary and colorless face. Like the thrust of a sword a pang³² shot through me—love of a man, hidden and disgraced, had blighted³³ that once blooming beauty.
 
She nodded without looking up:
 
"It's not the business only, there have been other—other—anxieties."
 
That was more of an opening than anything I'd ever heard her say. I could feel the smothering³⁴ beat of my heart as I answered, as quietly as I could:
 
"Can't you tell them to me? Perhaps I can help you."
 
One of those sudden waves of color I'd seen before passed across her face. As if to hide it she dropped her head lower over the paper, touching³⁵ up the marks she was making. Her voice came soft and controlled:
 
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Reddy—But I know you're kind—I knew it when I first met you a year ago in the country. No, I can't tell you."
 
I leaned nearer to her. If I had a chance to make her speak it was now or never.
 
"Miss Whitehall," I said, trying to inject a simple, casual friendliness³⁶ into my voice. "You're almost alone in the world, you've no one—no man, I mean—to look after you o............