TO ANYONE DISCOVERING THE MURDERER OF THE LATE SYLVIA HESKETH,
THIS SUM WILL BE PAID BY HER MOTHER, CONSTANCE GREY FOWLER,
MAPLESHADE, NEW JERSEY.
Late that afternoon Babbitts came into the office. He was staying at the
Longwood Inn, but it was the first time that day I'd seen him and after
our supper together I'd begun to feel real chummy with him. Contrary to
his usual custom he was short and preoccupied, giving me a number
without more words and then banging shut the door of the booth. It got
me a little riled and seeing he wasn't wasting any manners I didn't see
why I should, so I lifted the cam and quietly listened in. Not that I
expected to hear anything very private. The number he'd given was his
paper.
The chap at the other end had a way of grunting, "I got you," no matter
what was said. I'd heard _him_ before and he had a most unnatural sort
of patience about him, as if his spirit was broken forever taking
messages off a wire.
"Say," says Babbitts, "I got a new lead--up country near Hines' place. I
been there all morning. There's a farm up that way. Cresset's"--he
spelled the name and the other one did his usual stunt--"Good people,
years on the soil, self-respecting, stand high. Their house is about
half a mile across woods and fields from the Wayside Arbor, lonely with
a bad bit of road leading up from the pike. Do you hear?"
"Get on," said the voice.
"I stopped in there and had a seance with Mrs. Cresset, nice woman, fat
with a white apron. I said I was a tourist thirsting for a drink of
milk."