Nevertheless, he took his outfit out of the lower drawer of his desk and dusted the paper and the machine—with negative results on each. There were not even prints of Cynthia to confuse the matter; she had a business-college neatness in her office habits and made a practice of brushing and wiping her typewriter at the end of each day.

While watching him work she remarked, "Looks as if you saw him getting out rather than in."

"Huh? How?"

"Picked the lock, I suppose."

"Not that lock. You forget, baby, that that lock is one of Mr. Yale’s proudest achievements. You could break it, maybe, but you couldn’t pick it."

She made no answer—she could think of none. He stared moodily at the typewriter as if it should tell him what had happened, then straightened up, gathered up his gear, and returned it to its proper drawer. "The whole thing stinks," he said, and commenced to pace the room.

Cynthia took a rag from her own desk and wiped the print powder from the machine, then sat down and watched him. She held her tongue while he fretted with the matter. Her expression was troubled but she was not worried for herself—nor was it entirely maternal. Rather was she worried for them.

"Cyn," he said suddenly, "this has got to stop!"

"All right," she agreed. "Let’s stop it."

"How?"

"Let’s take that vacation."

He shook his head. "I can’t run away from it. I’ve got to know."

She sighed. "I’d rather not know. What’s wrong with running away from something too big for us to fight?"e stopped and looked at her. "What’s come over you, Cyn? You never went chicken before."

"No," she answered slowly, "I never did. But I never had reason to. Look at me, Teddy—you know I’m not a female female. I don’t expect you to pick fights in restaurants when some lug tries to pick me up. I don’t scream at the sight of blood and I don’t expect you to clean up your language to fit my ladylike ears. As for the job, did I ever let you down on a case? Through timidity, I mean. Did I ever?"

"Hell, no. I didn’t say you did."

"But this is a different case. I had a gun in my bag a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t use it. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t."

He swore, with emphasis and considerable detail. "I wish I had seen him then. I would have used mine!"

"Would you have, Teddy?" Seeing his expression, she jumped up and kissed him suddenly, on the end of his nose. "I don’t mean you would have been afraid. You know I didn’t mean that. You’re brave and you’re strong and I think you’re brainy. But look, dear—yesterday he led you around by the nose and made you believe you were seeing things that weren’t there. Why didn’t you use your gun then?"

"I didn’t see any occasion to use it."

"That’s exactly what I mean. You saw what was intended for you to see. How can you fight when you can’t believe your own eyes?"

"But, damn it, he can’t do this to us—"

"Can’t he? Here’s what he can do." She ticked them off on her fingers. "He can be two places at once. He can make you see one thing and me another, at the same time—outside the Acme Building, remember? He can make you think you went to an office suite that doesn’t exist on a floor that doesn’t exist. He can pass through a locked door to use a typewriter on the other side. And he doesn’t leave fingerprints. What does that add up to?"

He made an impatient gesture. "To nonsense. Or to magic. And I don’t believe in magic."

"Neither do I."

"Then," he said, "we’ve both gone bats." He laughed, but it was not merry.

"Maybe. If it’s magic, we had best see a priest—"

"I told you I don’t believe in magic."

"Skip it. If it’s the other, it won’t do us any good to try to tail Mr. Hoag. A man with the D.T.’s can’t catch the snakes he thinks he sees and take them to a zoo. He needs a doctor—and maybe we do, too."

Randall was suddenly alert. "Say!"

"Say what?"

"You’ve just reminded me of an angle that I had forgotten—Hoag’s doctor. We never checked on him."

"Yes, you did, too. Don’t you remember? There wasn’t any such doctor."

"I don’t mean Dr. Rennault; I mean Dr. Potbury—the one he went to see about the stuff under his fingernails."

"Do you think he really did that? I thought it was just part of the string of lies he told us."

"So do I. But we ought to check up on it."

"I’ll bet you there isn’t any such doctor."

"You’re probably right, but we ought to know. Gimme the phone book." She handed it to him; he thumbed through it, searching for the P’s. "Potbury—Potbury. There’s half a column of them. But no M.D.’s, though," he announced presently. "Let’s have the yellow section; sometimes doctorson’t list their home addresses." She got it for him and he opened it. " ‘Physical Culture Studios’-‘Physicians & Surgeons.’ What a slog of ‘em! More doctors than saloons—half the town must be sick most of the time. Here we are: ‘Potbury, P.T., M.D.’ "

"That could be the one," she admitted.

"What are we waiting for? Let’s go find out."

"Teddy!"

"Why not?" he said defensively. "Potbury isn’t Hoag—"

"I wonder."

"Huh? What do you mean? Do you mean that Potbury might be mixed up in this huggermugger, too?"

"I don’t know. I’d just like to forget all about our Mr. Hoag."

"But there’s no harm in this, bright eyes. I’ll just pop into the car, slide down there, ask the worthy doctor a few pertinent questions, and be back for you in time for lunch."

"The car is laid up for a valve grind; you know that."

"O.K., I’ll take the el. Quicker, anyway."

"If you insist on going, we’ll both take the el. We stick together, Teddy."

He pulled at his lip. "Maybe you’re right. We don’t know where Hoag is. If you prefer it-"

"I certainly do. I got separated from you for just three minutes a little while ago and look what happened."

"Yeah, I guess so. I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, kid."

She brushed it away. "It’s not me; it’s us. If anything happens to us, I want it to be the same thing."

"All right," he said seriously. "From now on, we stick together. I’ll handcuff us together, if you’d rather."

"You won’t need to. I’m going to hang on."I

Potbury’s office was to the south, beyond the university. The tracks of the elevated ran between familiar miles of apartment houses. There were sights which one ordinarily sees without any impression registering on the brain; today she looked at them and saw them, through her own brown mood.

Four- and five-story walk-up apartment houses, with their backs to the tracks, at least ten families to a building, more usually twenty or more, and the buildings crushed together almost wall to wall. Wood-construction back porches which proclaimed the fire-trap nature of the warrens despite the outer brick shells, family wash hung out to dry on those porches, garbage cans, and trash bins. Mile after mile of undignified and unbeautiful squalor, seen from the rear.

And over everything a film of black grime, old and inescapable, like the dirt on the window sill beside her.

She thought of that vacation, clean air and clear sunshine. Why stay in Chicago? What did the town have to justify its existence? One decent boulevard, one decent suburb to the north, priced for the rich, two universities and a lake. As for the rest, endless miles of depressing, dirty streets. The town was one big stockyard.

The apartments gave way to elevated-train yards; the train turned left and headed east. After a few minutes they got off at Stoney Island station; she was glad to be off it and free of that too-frank back view of everyday life, even though she exchanged it for the noise and seedy commercialism of Sixty-third Street.

Potbury’s office faced on the street, with an excellent view of the elevated and the trains. It was the sort of location in which a G. P. could be sure of a busy practice and equally sure of never being bothered by riches or fame. The stuffy little waiting room was crowded but the turnover was fast; they did not have long to wait.