Randall had a sudden inspiration. "Potbury—in the Name of the Bird—get away from that door!"

The noise stopped as if chopped off.

Randall listened and then pursued his advantage. "In the Name of the Bird, don’t touch that door again. Hear me, Potbury?" There was no answer, but the quiet continued.

It was early; Hoag was still at his home. He quite evidently was confused by Randall’s incoherent explanations, but he agreed to come over, at once, or a little quicker.

Randall went back into the bedroom and resumed his double vigil. He held his wife’s still, cool hand with his left hand; in his right he carried his gun, ready in case the invocation failed to bind. But the pounding was not resumed; there was a deathly silence in both rooms for some minutes. Then Randall heard, or imagined he heard, a faint scraping sibilance from the bathroom—an unaccountable and ominous sound.

He could think of nothing to do about it, so he did nothing. It went on for several minutes and stopped. After that—nothing.oag recoiled at the sight of the gun. "Mr. Randall!"

"Hoag," Randall demanded, "are you a devil?"

"I don’t understand you."

" ‘The Bird is Cruel!’ "

Hoag did not cover his face; he simply looked confused and a bit more apprehensive.

"O.K.," decided Randall. "You pass. If you are a devil, you’re my kind of a devil. Come on— I’ve got Potbury locked up, and I want you to confront him."

"Me? Why?"

"Because he is a devil—a Son of the Bird. And they’re afraid of you. Come on!" He urged Hoag into the bedroom, continuing with, "The mistake I made was in not being willing to believe in something when it happened to me. Those weren’t dreams." He pounded on the door with the muzzle of the gun. "Potbury! Hoag is here. Do what I want and you may get out of it alive."

"What do you want of him?" Hoag said nervously.

"Her—of course."

"Oh—" Randall pounded again, then turned to Hoag and whispered, "If I open the door, will you confront him? I’ll be right alongside you."

Hoag gulped, looked at Cynthia, and answered, "Of course."

The bath was empty; it had no window, nor any other reasonable exit, but the means by which Potbury had escaped were evident. The surface of the mirror had been scraped free of enamel, with a razor blade.

They risked the seven years of bad luck and broke the mirror. Had he known how to do so, Randall would have swarmed through and tackled them all; lacking the knowledge it seemed wiser to close the leak.

After that there was nothing to do. They discussed it, over the silent form of Randall’s wife, but there was nothing to do. They were not magicians. Hoag went into the living room presently, unwilling to disturb the privacy of Randall’s despair but also unwilling to desert him entirely. He looked in on him from time to time. It was on one such occasion that he noticed a small black bag half under the bed and recognized it for what it was—a doctor’s kit. He went in and picked it up. "Ed," he asked, "have you looked at this?"

"At what?" Randall looked up with dull eyes, and read the inscription, embossed in well-worn gold letters on the flap:

POTIPHAR T. POTBURY, M.D.

"Huh?"

"He must have left it behind."

"He didn’t have a chance to take it." Randall took it from Hoag and opened it—a stethoscope, head forceps, clamps, needles, an assortment of vials in a case, the usual props of a G.P.’s work. There was one prescription bottle as well; Randall took it out and read the prescription. "Hoag, look at this."

POISON! This Prescription Can Not Be Refilled MRS. RANDALL—TAKE AS PRESCRIBED BONTON CUTRATE PHARMACY

"Was he trying to poison her?" Hoag suggested. "I don’t think so—that’s the usual narcotic warning. But I want to see what it is." He shook it. It seemed empty. He started to break the seal.

"Careful!" Hoag warned.

"I will be." He held it well back from his face to open it, then sniffed it very cautiously. It gave up a fragrance, subtle and infinitely sweet.

"Teddy?" He whirled around, dropping the bottle. It was indeed Cynthia, eyelids fluttering. "Don’t promise them anything, Teddy!" She sighed and her eyes closed again.

" ‘The Bird is Cruel!’ " she whispered.X

"Your memory lapses are the key to the whole thing," Randall was insisting. "If we knew what you do in the daytime, if we knew your profession, we would know why the Sons of the Bird are out to get you. More than that, we would know how to fight them—for they are obviously afraid of you."

Hoag turned to Cynthia. "What do you think, Mrs. Randall?"

"I think Teddy is right. If I knew enough about hypnotism, we would try that—but I don’t, so scopolamine is the next best bet. Are you willing to try it?"

"If you say so, yes."

"Get the kit, Teddy." She jumped down from where she had been perched, on the edge of his desk. He put out a hand to catch her.

"You ought to take it easy, baby," he complained.

"Nonsense, I’m all right—now."

They had adjourned to their business office almost as soon as Cynthia woke up. To put it plainly, they were scared—scared still, but not scared silly. The apartment seemed an unhealthy place to be. The office did not seem much better. Randall and Cynthia had decided to get out of town—the stop at the office was a penultimate stop, for a conference of war.

Hoag did not know what to do.

"Just forget you ever saw this kit," Randall warned him, as he prepared the hypodermic. "Not being a doctor, nor an anaesthetist, I shouldn’t have it. But it’s convenient, sometimes." He scrubbed a spot of Hoag’s forearm with an alcohol swab. "Steady now—there!" He shoved the needle.

They waited for the drug to take hold. "What do you expect to get," Randall whispered to Cynthia.

"I don’t know. If we’re lucky, his two personalities will knit. Then we may find out a lot of things."

A little later Hoag’s head sagged forward; he breathed heavily. She stepped forward and shook his shoulder. "Mr. Hoag—do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Jonathan ... Hoag."

"Where do you live?"

"Six-oh-two—Gotham Apartments."

"What do you do?"

"I ... don’t know." "Try to remember. What is your profession?" No answer. She tried again. "Are you a hypnotist?" "No." "Are you a—magician?" The answer was delayed a little, but finally came. "No." "What are you, Jonathan Haag?"

He opened his mouth, seemed about to answer—then sat up suddenly, his manner brisk and completely free of the lassitude normal to the drug. "I’m sorry, my dear, but this will have to stop— for the present."

He stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. "Bad," he said, glancing up and downhe street. "How distressingly bad." He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to them. Cynthia and Randall looked at him, then to each other for help.

"What is bad, Mr. Hoag?" Cynthia asked, rather diffidently. She did not have the impression analyzed, but he seemed like another person—younger, more vibrant.

"Eh? Oh, I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation. I was forced to, uh, dispense with the drug."

"Dispense with it?"

"Throw it off, ignore it, make it as nothing. You see, my dear, while you were talking I recalled my profession." He looked at them cheerily, but offered no further explanation.

Randall was the first to recover. "What is your profession?"

Hoag smiled at him, almost tenderly. "It wouldn’t do to tell you," he said. "Not now, at least." He turned to Cynthia. "My dear, could I trouble you for a pencil and a sheet of paper?"

"Uh—why, certainly." She got them for him; he accepted them graciously and, seating himself, began to write.

When he said nothing to explain his conduct Randall spoke up, "Say, Hoag, look here—" Hoag turned a serene face to him; Randall started to speak, seemed puzzled by what he saw in Hoag’s face, and concluded lamely, "Er ... Mr. Hoag, what’s this all about?"