"Now understand that I mean nothing against Reddy and that I've never said this to a soul but you, but ever since the inquest there's been one thing that's puzzled me—the length of time he was out that night."
"He explained that," I said.
"I know he did, and everybody's accepted his explanation. But seven hours in a high-powered racing car! He could have gone to Philadelphia, taken in a show and come back."
"But he told all about it," I insisted.
"He did," said Babbitts, "but I'll tell you something, Miss Morganthau—between ourselves not to go an inch farther—Reddy's story impressed me as the undiluted truth till he got to that part of it."
"What do you mean?" I said, low, and being afraid I was going to tremble I pulled my arm away from him.
"This—I was watching him very close, and when he began to talk about that night ride, some sort of change came over him. It was very subtle, I never heard anyone speak of it, but it seemed to me as if he was making an effort to give an impression of frankness. The rest of his testimony had the hesitating, natural tone of a man who is nervous and maybe uncertain of his facts, but when he came to that he—well, he looked to me as if he was internally bracing himself, as if he was on dangerous ground and knew it."
If I'd been able to speak as well as that those were exactly the words I would have used. I cleared my throat before I answered.
"Looks like to me, Mr. Babbitts, that you ought to be writing novels instead of press stories."
"Oh, no," he said careless, "but, you see, I've been on a number of cases like this and a fellow gets observant. It's queer—the whole thing. If that French woman's evidence is to be trusted Miss Hesketh did leave the house early to keep that date with the Voice Man."