He sat down and waited for the order from the delicatessen to arrive. All the while he had been thinking over his conversation with Hoag. There was only one thing about Hoag that was clear, he concluded, and that was that everything about him was confusing. His original story had been wacky enough—imagine coming in and offering a high fee to have himself shadowed! But the events since made that incident seem downright reasonable. There was the matter of the thirteenth floor—damn it! He had seen that thirteenth floor, been on it, watched Hoag at work with a jeweler’s glass screwed in his eye.

Yet he could not possibly have done so.

What did it add up to? Hypnotism, maybe? Randall was not naive about such things; he knew that hypnotism existed, but he knew also that it was not nearly as potent as the Sunday-supplement feature writers would have one believe. As for hypnotizing a man in a split second on a crowded street so that he believed in and could recall clearly a sequence of events that had never taken place—well, he just didn’t believe in it. If a thing like that were true, then the whole world might be just a fraud and an illusion.

Maybe it was.

Maybe the whole world held together only when you kept your attention centered on it and believed in it. If you let discrepancies creep in, you began to doubt and it began to go to pieces. Maybe this had happened to Cynthia because he had doubted her reality. If he just closed his eyes and believed in her alive and well, then she would be—

He tried it. He shut out the rest of the world and concentrated on Cynthia—Cynthia alive and well, with that little quirk to her mouth she had when she was laughing at something he had said— Cynthia, waking up in the morning, sleepy-eyed and beautiful—Cynthia in a tailored suit and a pert little hat, ready to start out with him anywhere. Cynthia—

He opened his eyes and looked at the bed. There she still lay, unchanged and deathly. He let himself go for a while, then blew his nose and went in to put some water on his face.III

The house buzzer sounded. Randall went to the hall door and jiggled the street-door release without using the apartment phone—he did not want to speak to anyone just then, certainly not to whoever it was that Joe had found to deliver the groceries.

After a reasonable interval there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it, saying, "Bring ’em in," then stopped suddenly.

Hoag stood just outside the door.

Neither of them spoke at first. Randall was astounded; Hoag seemed diffident and waiting for Randall to commence matters. At last he said shyly, "I had to come, Mr. Randall. May I ... come in?"

Randall stared at him, really at a loss for words. The brass of the man—the sheer gall!

"I came because I had to prove to you that I would not willingly harm Mrs. Randall," he said simply. "If I have done so unknowingly, I want to do what I can to make restitution."

"It’s too late for restitution!"

"But, Mr. Randall—why do you think that I have done anything to your wife? I don’t see how I could have—not yesterday morning." He stopped and looked hopelessly at Randall’s stony face. "You wouldn’t shoot a dog without a fair trial—would you?"

Randall chewed his lip in an agony of indecision. Listening to him, the man seemed so damned decent— He threw the door open wide. "Come in," he said gruffly.

"Thank you, Mr. Randall." Hoag came in diffidently. Randall started to close the door.

"Your name Randall?" Another man, a stranger, stood in the door, loaded with bundles.

"Yes," Randall admitted, fishing in his pocket for change. "How did you get in?"

"Came in with him," the man said, pointing at Hoag, "but I got off at the wrong floor. The beer is cold, chief," he added ingratiatingly. "Right off the ice."

"Thanks." Randall added a dime to the half dollar and closed the door on him. He picked the bundles up from the floor and started for the kitchen. He would have some of that beer now, he decided; there was never a time when he needed it more. After putting the packages down in the kitchen he took out one of the cans, fumbled in the drawer for an opener, and prepared to open it.

A movement caught his eye—Hoag, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Randall had not invited him to sit down; he was still standing. "Sit down!"

"Thank you." Hoag sat down.

Randall turned back to his beer. But the incident had reminded him of the other’s presence; he found himself caught in the habit of good manners; it was almost impossible for him to pour himself a beer and offer none to a guest, no matter how unwelcome.

He hesitated just a moment, then thought, Shucks, it can’t hurt either Cynthia or me to let him have a can of beer. "Do you drink beer?"

"Yes, thank you." As a matter of fact Hoag rarely drank beer, preferring to reserve his palate for the subtleties of wines, but at the moment he would probably have said yes to synthetic gin, or ditch water, if Randall had offered it.

Randall brought in the glasses, put them down, then went into the bedroom, opening the door for the purpose just enough to let him slip in. Cynthia was just as he had come to expect her to be. He shifted her position a trifle, in the belief that any position grows tiring even to a person unconscious, then smoothed the coverlet. He looked at her and thought about Hoag and Potbury’s warnings against Hoag. Was Hoag as dangerous as the doctor seemed to think? Was he, Randall, even nowlaying into his hands?

No, Hoag could not hurt him now. When the worst has happened any change is an improvement. The death of both of them—or even Cyn’s death alone, for then he would simply follow her. That he had decided earlier in the day—and he didn’t give a damn who called it cowardly!

No—if Hoag were responsible for this, at least he had shot his bolt. He went back into the living room.

Hoag’s beer was still untouched. "Drink up," Randall invited, sitting down and reaching for his own glass. Hoag complied, having the good sense not to offer a toast nor even to raise his glass in the gesture of one. Randall looked him over with tired curiosity. "I don’t understand you, Hoag."

"I don’t understand myself, Mr. Randall."

"Why did you come here?"

Hoag spread his hands helplessly. "To inquire about Mrs. Randall. To find out what it is that I have done to her. To make up for it, if I can."

"You admit you did it?"

"No, Mr. Randall. No. I don’t see how I could possibly have done anything to Mrs. Randall yesterday morning—"

"You forget that I saw you."

"But— What did I do?"

"You cornered Mrs. Randall in a corridor of the Midway-Copton Building and tried to choke her."

"Oh, dear! But—you saw me do this?"

"No, not exactly. I was—" Randall stopped, realizing how it was going to sound to tell Hoag that he had not seen him in one part of the building because he was busy watching Hoag in another part of the building.

"Go on, Mr. Randall, please."

Randall got nervously to his feet. "It’s no use," he snapped. "I don’t know what you did. I don’t know that you did anything! All I know is this: Since the first day you walked in that door, odd things have been happening to my wife and me—evil things—and now she’s lying in there as if she were dead. She’s—" He stopped and covered his face with his hands.

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. "Mr. Randall ... please, Mr. Randall. I’m sorry and I would like to help."

"I don’t know how anyone can help—unless you know some way of waking up my wife. Do you, Mr. Hoag?"

Hoag shook his head slowly. "I’m afraid I don’t. Tell me—what is the matter with her? I don’t know yet."

"There isn’t much to tell. She didn’t wake up this morning. She acts as if she never would wake up."