Dr. Dixon.

“How about the handwriting?” asked Kennedy.

The lawyer pulled out a number of letters.  “I’m afraid they will have to admit it,” he said with reluctance, as if down in his heart he hated to prosecute Dixon.  “We have lots of these, and no handwriting expert could successfully deny the identity of the writing.”

He stowed away the letters without letting Kennedy get a hint as to their contents.  Kennedy was examining the note carefully.

“May I count on having this note for further examination, of course always at such times and under such conditions as you agree to?”

The attorney nodded.  “I am perfectly willing to do anything not illegal to accommodate the senator,” he said.  “But, on the other hand, I am here to do my duty for the state, cost whom it may.”

The Willard house was in a virtual state of siege.  Newspaper reporters from Boston and New York were actually encamped at every gate, terrible as an army, with cameras.  It was with some difficulty that we got in, even though we were expected, for some of the more enterprising had already fooled the family by posing as officers of the law and messengers from Dr. Dixon.

The house was a real, old colonial mansion with tall white pillars, a door with a glittering brass knocker, which gleamed out severely at you as you approached through a hedge of faultlessly trimmed boxwoods.

Senator, or rather former Senator, Willard met us in the library, and a moment later his daughter Alma joined him.  She was tall, like her father, a girl of poise and self-control.  Yet even the schooling of twenty-two years in rigorous New England self-restraint could not hide the very human pallor of her face after the sleepless nights and nervous days since this trouble had broken on her placid existence.  Yet there was a mark of strength and determination on her face that was fascinating.  The man who would trifle with this girl, I felt, was playing fast and loose with her very life.  I thought then, and I said to Kennedy afterward:  “If this Dr. Dixon is guilty, you have no right to hide it from that girl.  Anything less than the truth will only blacken the hideousness of the crime that has already been committed.”

The senator greeted us gravely, and I could not but take it as a good omen when, in his pride of wealth and family and tradition, he laid bare everything to us, for the sake of Alma Willard.  It was clear that in this family there was one word that stood above all others, “Duty.”

As we were about to leave after an interview barren of new facts, a young man was announced, Mr. Halsey Post.  He bowed politely to us, but it was evident why he had called, as his eye followed Alma about the room.

“The son of the late Halsey Post, of Post & Vance, silversmiths, who have the large factory in town, which you perhaps noticed,” explained the senator.  “My daughter has known him all her life.  A very fine young man.”