You can imagine after that disappointment in Philadelphia—it seems an unfeeling way to speak of the death of an old gentleman—how we all turned our eyes and kept them fixed¹ on Tony Ford².  
Friday night Babbitts told me the hospital had reported he couldn't be seen till Monday. The others were in a fever, he said, O'Mally smoking big black cigars by the gross and Jack³ Reddy gone off to Buffalo⁴, and Mr. George that scared Ford would slip off some way he'd have liked to put a cordon⁵ of the National Guard round the hospital.
 
Then came Saturday—and Gee⁶! up everything burst different to what anybody had expected.
 
It started with Mr. George. Being so nervous he couldn't rest he called up the hospital in the morning and got word that there'd been a mistake in the message of the day before and that Mr. Ford was well enough to see the Philadelphia detectives that afternoon. Before midday Babbitts and O'Mally were gathered in, and while I was waiting on pins and needles in Ninety-fifth Street and Jack Reddy was off unsuspecting in Buffalo, the two of them were planted by Tony Ford's bedside, hearing the story that lifted the Harland case one peg⁷ higher in its surprise and grewsomeness.
 
O'Mally and Babbitts had their plans all laid beforehand. They were two plain-clothes men from Philadelphia, who had just come on a new lead—the finding of Sammis. When they'd opened that up before him, they were going to pass on to the murder—take him by surprise. If Ford made the confession⁸ they hoped to shake out of him, the warrant for his arrest would be issued and the Harland case come before the public in its true light.
 
Babbitts had never seen Ford and when he described him to me it didn't sound like the same man. He was lying propped⁹ up with pillows, his head swathed in bandages, and his face pale and haggard. Under the covers his long legs stretched most to the end of the cot, and his big, powerful hands were lying limp on the counterpane. He was in a private room, in an inside wing of the hospital, very quiet and retired¹⁰.
 
When the attendant left and they introduced themselves he looked sort of scowling¹¹ from one to the other. Both noticed the same thing—a kind of uneasiness, as if his apprehensions¹² were aroused, and for all his broken head he was on the job, not weak and indifferent, but wary¹³ and alert.
 
This wasn't what they wanted so they started in telling him the news they thought would please him and put him at his ease. A clue had been picked up in Philadelphia that looked like the mystery of his attack was solved.
 
"In fact," says O'Mally, "a man's been run to earth there that we're pretty sure is the one."
 
Both men were watching him and both saw a change come over him that caught their eyes and held them. Instead of being relieved he was scared.
 
"Have you got the man?" he said.
 
O'Mally nodded:
 
"That's what we have."
 
"Who is he?"
 
"Party called Sammis. Answers to the description——"
 
Before he could go further Ford raised himself on his elbow, looking downright terrified.
 
"Joseph Sammis?" he said, his eyes set staring on O'Mally.
 
"That's it. We tracked him up and found him. But I don't want to raise any false hopes. We were too late. When we got there he was dead."
 
It had an extraordinary effect upon Ford. He gave a gasp¹⁴, and raised himself up into a sitting posture¹⁵, his mouth open, his eyes glued on O'Mally. For a minute not one of them said a word—Ford evidently too paralyzed at what he'd heard, and the others too surprised at the way Ford was acting¹⁶ which was exactly different to what they'd expected. It was he who spoke¹⁷ first, his voice gone down to a husky murmur¹⁸:
 
"Dead?"
 
O'Mally answered:
 
"Heart disease, angina pectoris. The doctor down there said some strain or effort had finished him. That, as we see it, was the attack he made on you."
 
Then Ford did the most surprising thing of all. Raising his hands he clapped both over his face, and with a big, heaving sob¹⁹ from the bottom of his chest, fell back on the pillows and began to cry.
 
Babbitts said you couldn't have believed it if you hadn't seen it—he and O'Mally looking stumped²⁰ at each other and between them that great ox of a man, lying in the bed crying like a baby. Then Himself, being fearful that maybe they'd done the man harm, rose up to go after a nurse, but O'Mally caught him by the coat, whispering, "Keep still, you goat," then turned and said very pleasant to Ford:
 
"Knocked you out, old man. That's natural, nerves still weak. Keep it up till you feel better. Don't mind us—we're used to it."
 
So there they sat, Babbitts still uneasy, but O'Mally, calm and patient, tilting²¹ back in his chair looking dreamy out of the window. He said afterward²² that he knew that hysterical²³ fit for what it was—relief, and that was why he wouldn't let Babbitts call a nurse.
 
Presently the sobs²⁴ began to ease off and Ford, groping under the pillow for a handkerchief, said, all choked up:
 
"How did you come to connect him with me?"
 
"By papers found in his desk—records of a real-estate business you and he'd been in some years ago at Syracuse."
 
"That's the man," said Ford, between his hiccuppy catches of breath, "and he's dead?"
 
"Dead as Julius Cæsar." O'Mally leaned forward, his voice dropping, "You knew he was the chap that attacked you?"
 
Ford, his head drooped²⁵, his shoulders hunched²⁶ up like an old woman's, nodded:
 
"Yes, I lied when I said he was a stranger to me."
 
"Why did you do that?" asked Babbitts.
 
It was just what you might know he'd ask. One of the cutest things about Himself is that he never can understand why anyone, no matter what the provocation²⁷, has to lie.
 
Ford didn't answer and O'Mally, giving his chair a hitch²⁸ nearer to the bed, said kind and persuasive²⁹:
 
"Say, Ford, you'd better tell us all you know. We got the papers, and most of the information. The man's dead. Clean it up and we'll let it drop."
 
Without raising his head Ford said, low and sort of sullen³⁰:
 
"All right—if you agree to that. I was in business with him and I—I—didn't play fair—lit out with some of the money." He turned a lowering look on Babbitts. "That's the answer to your question," then back to O'Mally, "I didn't run across him or hear of him in all this time and supposed the whole thing was buried and forgotten till he came into my room Tuesday night. He was blazing mad, said he'd been waiting for a chance to even up, and had at last found me. To keep him quiet I said I'd give him some money. I had some."
 
"Yes, yes," said O'Mally, nodding cheerfully, "the legacy³¹ your uncle left you."
 
Ford shot a look at him, sharp and quick:
 
"Oh, you know about that?"
 
"Naturally. Inquiries³² have been made in all directions. Go on."
 
"I hadn't much cash there—a few dollars, but I thought I'd hand him that and agree to pay him more later. He said he didn't want money, that wouldn't square our accounts, and as I went to the desk he came up behind me and struck me. That's all I know."
 
"Did he say how he'd located you?"
 
"Yes. He'd been looking for me ever since I'd skipped but couldn't find me. Then he saw my name in the papers after the Harland suicide. Some fool reporter spoke to me in the street that night and I told him who I was and where I worked. A short while after Sammis phoned up to the Black Eagle Building, heard from Miss Whitehall I'd left and got from her my house address."
 
"Did he say what he was doing in Philadelphia?"
 
"He had some new job there, he didn't say what, but he said he was well paid. That came out in his blustering³³ about not wanting my money."
 
There was a pause, Babbitts and O'Mally scribbling³⁴ in their note books, Ford sitting up in that hunched position, looking surly at his hands lying on the counterpane. So far every word he'd said tallied³⁵ with what they already knew. Babbitts was wondering how O'Mally was going to get round to the real business of the interview, when the detective suddenly raised up from his notes, and leaning forward tapped lightly on one of Ford's hands with the point of his pencil.
 
"Say, Ford, how about that legacy from your uncle?"
 
Ford gave a start, stiffened³⁶ up and looked quick as a flash into the detective's face.
 
"What about it?" he stammered³⁷.
 
O'Mally, his body bending forward, his pencil tip still on Ford's hand, said with sudden, grim meaning:
 
"We know where it came from."
 
For a second they eyed each other. Babbitts said it looked like an electric current was passing between them, holding them as still as if they were mesmerized³⁸. Then O'Mally went on, very low, each word falling slow and clear from his lips:
 
"We know all about that money and the game you've been playing. This Sammis business isn't what we're here for. It's the other—the Harland matter, the thing that's been occupying your time and thoughts lately. That outside job of yours—that job that was finished on the night of January the fifteenth." He paused and Ford's glance slid away from him, his eyes like the eyes of a trapped animal traveling round the walls of the room. "We've got you, Ford. The whole thing's in our hands. Your only chance is to tell—tell everything you know."
 
In describing it to me Babbitts said that moment was one of the tensest in the whole case. Ford was cornered, you could see he knew it and you could see the consciousness of guilt³⁹ in his pallid⁴⁰ face and trembling hands. O'Mally was like a hunter that has his prey⁴¹ at last in sight, drawn⁴² forward to the edge of his chair, his jaw⁴³ squared, his eyes piercing into Ford like gimlets.
 
............