"I don’t think I’ll go out in the garden;

I’ll make the worms come in to me!

If I have to be miser’ble,

I might as well be so comjort’bly!"

He paused for effect. "Chorus," he announced.

"Never mind trouble! Fiddle-de-dee!

Eat your worms with Vitamin B!

Follow this rule and you will be

Still eating worms at a hundred ‘n’ three!"

He paused again. "Second verse," he stated. "Only I haven’t thought up a second verse yet. Shall I repeat the first verse?"

"No, thanks. Just duck out of that shower and give me a chance at it."

"You don’t like it," he accused her.

"I didn’t say I didn’t."

"Art is rarely appreciated," he mourned. But he got out.

He had the coffee and the orange juice waiting by the time she appeared in the kitchen. He handed her a glass of the fruit juice. "Teddy, you’re a darling. What do you want in exchange for all this coddling?"

"You. But not now. I’m not only sweet, I’m brainy."

"So?"

"Uh-huh. Look— I’ve figured out what to do with friend Hoag."

"Hoag? Oh, dear!"

"Look out—you’ll spill it!" He took the glass from her and set it down. "Don’t be silly, babe. What’s gotten into you?"

"I don’t know, Teddy. I just feel as if we were tackling the kingpin of Cicero with a pea shooter."

"I shouldn’t have talked business before breakfast. Have your coffee—you’ll feel better."

"All right. No toast for me, Teddy. What’s your brilliant idea?"

"It’s this," he explained, while crunching toast. "Yesterday we tried to keep out of his sight in order not to shake him back into his nighttime personality. Right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, today we don’t have to. We can stick to him like a leech, both of us, practically arm in arm. If it interferes with the daytime half of his personality, it doesn’t matter, because we can lead him to the Acme Building. Once there, habit will take him where he usually goes. Am I right?"

"I don’t know, Teddy. Maybe. Amnesia personalities are funny things. He might just drift into a confused state."

"You don’t think it will work?"

"Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But as long as you plan for us to stay close together, I’m willing to try it—if you won’t give up the whole matter."

He ignored the condition she placed on it. "Fine. I’ll give the old buzzard a ring and tell him to wait for us at his apartment." He reached across the breakfast table and grabbed the phone, dialed it and talked with Hoag. "He’s certainly a June bug, that one," he said as he put the phone down. "At first he couldn’t place me at all. Then all of a sudden he seemed to click and everything was all right. Ready to go, Cyn?"

"Half a sec."

"O. K." He got up and went into the living room, whistling softly. The whistling broke off; he came quickly back into the kitchen. "Cyn—"

"What’s the matter, Teddy?"

"Come into the living room—please!"

She hurried to do so, suddenly apprehensive at the sight of his face. He pointed to a straight chair which had been pulled over to a point directly under the mirror near the outer door. "Cyn—how did that get where it is?"

"That chair? Why, I pulled a chair over there to straighten the mirror just before I went to bed. I must have left it there."

"Mm-m-m— I suppose you must have. Funny I didn’t notice it when I turned out the light."

"Why does it worry you? Think somebody might have gotten into the apartment last night?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure—that’s what I was thinking." But his brow was still wrinkled.

Cynthia looked at him, then went back into the bedroom. There she gathered up her purse, went through it rapidly, then opened a small, concealed drawer in her dressing table. "If anyone did manage to get in, they didn’t get much. Got your wallet? Everything in it? How about your watch?"

He made a quick check and reported, "They’re all right. You must have left the chair there and I just didn’t notice it. Ready to go?"

"Be right with you."

He said no more about it. Privately he was thinking what an involved mess a few subconscious memories and a club sandwich just before turning in could make. He must have noticed the chair just before turning out the light—hence its appearance in the nightmare. He dismissed the matter.

Hoag was waiting for them. "Come in," he said. "Come in. Welcome, madame, to my little hideaway. Will you sit down? Have we time for a cup of tea? I’m afraid, he added apologetically, "that I haven’t coffee in the house."

"I guess we have," agreed Randall. "Yesterday you left the house at eight fifty-three and it’s only eight thirty-five now. I think we ought to leave at the same time."

"Good." Hoag bustled away, to return at once with a tea service on a tray, which he placed on a table at Cynthia’s knees. "Will you pour, Mrs. Randall? It’s Chinese tea," he added. "My own blend."

"I’d be pleased." He did not look at all sinister this morning, she was forced to admit. He was just a fussy little bachelor with worry lines around his eyes—and a most exquisite apartment. His pictures were good, just how good she had not the training to tell, but they looked like originals. There were not too many of them, either, she noticed with approval. Arty little bachelors were usually worse than old maids for crowding a room full of too much.

Not Mr. Hoag’s flat. It had an airy perfection to it as pleasing, in its way, as a Brahms waltz. She wanted to ask him where he had gotten his drapes.

He accepted a cup of tea from her, cradled it in his hand and sniffed the aroma before sipping from it. He then turned to Randall. "I’m afraid, sir, that we are off on a wild-goose chase this morning."

"Perhaps. Why do you think so?"

"Well, you see, I really am at a loss as to what to do next. Your telephone call— I was preparing my morning tea—I don’t keep a servant—as usual, when you called. I suppose I am more or less in a brown fog in the early mornings—absent-minded, you know, just doing the things one does when one gets up, making one’s toilet and all that with one’s thoughts elsewhere. When you telephoned I was quite bemused and it took me a moment to recall who you were and what business we had with each other. In a way the conversation cleared my head, made me consciously aware of myself, that is to say, but now—" He shrugged helplessly. "Now I haven’t the slightest idea of what I am to do next."

Randall nodded. "I had that possibility in mind when I phoned you. I don’t claim to be a psychologist but it seemed possible that your transition from your nighttime self to your daytime self took place as you left your apartment and that any interruption in your routine might throw you off."

"Then why—"

"It won’t matter. You see, we shadowed you yesterday; we know where you go."

"You do? Tell me, sir! Tell me."

"Not so fast. We lost track of you at the last minute. What I had in mind is this; We could guide you along the same track, right up to the point where we lost track of you yesterday. At that point I am hoping that your habitual routine will carry you on through—and we will be in right at your heels."

"You say ‘we.’ Does Mrs. Randall assist you in this?"

Randall hesitated, realizing that he had been caught out in a slight prevarication. Cynthia moved in and took over the ball.

"Not ordinarily, Mr. Hoag, but this seemed like an exceptional case. We felt that you would not enjoy having your private affairs looked into by the ordinary run of hired operator, so Mr. Randall has undertaken to attend to your case personally, with my help when necessary."

"Oh, I say, that’s awfully kind of you!"

"Not at all."

"But it is—it is. But, uh, in that case—I wonder if I have paid you enough. Do not the services of the head of the firm come a little higher?"