"Are you not willing to trust me?"

Randall chewed his lip for a moment and looked at him; Hoag was patient and serene. "Yes ... I suppose I am," he said at last.

"Good. I am making a list of some things I want you to buy for me. I shall be quite busy for the next two hours or so."

"You are leaving us?"

"You are worried about the Sons of the Bird, aren’t you? Forget them. They will not harm you. I promise it." He resumed writing. Some minutes later he handed the list to Randall. "I’ve noted at the bottom the place where you are to meet me—a filling station outside Waukegan."

"Waukegan? Why Waukegan?"

"No very important reason. I want to do once more something I am very fond of doing and don’t expect to be able to do again. You’ll help me, won’t you? Some of the things I’ve asked you to buy may be hard to get, but you will try?"

"I suppose so."

"Good." He left at once.

Randall looked from the closing door back to the list in his hand. "Well, I’ll be a— Cyn, what do you suppose he wants us to get for him?—groceries!"

"Groceries? Let me see that list."

They were driving north in the outskirts of the city, with Randall at the wheel. Somewhere up ahead lay the place where they were to meet Hoag; behind them in the trunk of the car were the purchases he had directed them to make.

"Teddy?"

"Yeah, kid."

"Can you make a U-turn here?"

"Sure—if you don’t get caught. Why?"

"Because that’s just what I’d like to do. Let me finish," she went on hurriedly. "We’ve got the car; we’ve got all the money we have in the world with us; there isn’t anything to stop us from heading south if we want to."

"Still thinking of that vacation? But we’re going on it—just as soon as we deliver this stuff to Hoag."

"I don’t mean a vacation. I mean go away and never come back—now!"

"With eighty dollars’ worth of fancy groceries that Hoag ordered and hasn’t paid for yet? No soap.

"We could eat them ourselves."

"Humph! Caviar and humming-bird wings. We can’t afford it, kid. We’re the hamburger type. Anyhow, even if we could, I want to see Hoag again. Some plain talk—and explanations."

She sighed. "That’s just what I thought, Teddy, and that’s why I want to cut and run. I don’t want explanations; I’m satisfied with the world the way it is. Just you and me—and no complications. I don’t want to know anything about Mr. Hoag’s profession—or the Sons of the Bird—or anything like that."

He fumbled for a cigarette, then scratched a match under the instrument board, while looking at her quizzically out of the corner of his eye. Fortunately the traffic was light. "I think I feel the same way you do about it, kid, but I’ve got a different angle on it. If we drop it now, I’ll be jumpy about the Sons of the Bird the rest of my life, and scared to shave, for fear of looking in a mirror. But there is a rational explanation for the whole thing—bound to be—and I’m going to get it. Then we can sleep."

She made herself small and did not answer.

"Look at it this way," Randall went on, somewhat irritated. "Everything that has happened could have been done in the ordinary way, without recourse to supernatural agencies. As for supernatural agencies—well, out here in the sunlight and the traffic it’s a little too much to swallow. Sons of the Bird—rats!"

She did not answer. He went on. "The first significant point is that Hoag is a consummate actor. Instead of being a prissy little Milquetoast, he’s a dominant personality of the first water. Look at the way I shut up and said, ‘Yes, sir,’ when he pretended to throw off the drug and ordered us to buy all those groceries."

"Pretended?"

"Sure. Somebody substituted colored water for my sleepy juice—probably done the same time the phony warning was stuck in the typewriter. But to get back to the point—he’s a naturally strong character and almost certainly a clever hypnotist. Pulling that illusion about the thirteenth floor and Detheridge & Co. shows how skillful he is—or somebody is. Probably used drugs on me as well, just as they did on you."

"On me?"

"Sure. Remember that stuff you drank in Potbury’s office? Some sort of a delayed-action Mickey Finn."

"But you drank it, too!"

"Not necessarily the same stuff. Potbury and Hoag were in cahoots, which is how they created the atmosphere that made the whole thing possible. Everything else was little stuff, insignificant when taken alone."

Cynthia had her own ideas about that, but she kept them to herself. However, one point bothered her. "How did Potbury get out of the bathroom? You told me he was locked in."

"I’ve thought about that. He picked the lock while I was phoning Hoag, hid in the closet and just waited his chance to walk out."

"Hm-m-m—" She let it go at that for several minutes.

Randall stopped talking, being busy with the traffic in Waukegan. He turned left and headed out of town.

"Teddy—if you are sure that the whole thing was just a hoax and there are no such things as the Sons, then why can’t we drop it and head south? We don’t need to keep this appointment."

"I’m sure of my explanation all right," he said, skillfully avoiding a suicide-bent boy on a bicycle, "in its broad outlines, but I’m not sure of the motivation—and that’s why I have to see Hoag. Funny thing, though," he continued thoughtfully, "I don’t think Hoag has anything against us; I think he had some reasons of his own and paid us five hundred berries to put up with some discomfort while he carried out his plans. But we’ll see. Anyhow, it’s too late to turn back; there’s the filling station he mentioned—and there’s Hoag!"

Hoag climbed in with no more than a nod and a smile; Randall felt again the compulsion to do as he was told which had first hit him some two hours before. Hoag told him where to go.

The way lay out in the country and, presently, off the pavement. In due course they came to a farm gate leading into pasture land, which Hoag instructed Randall to open and drive through. "The owner does not mind," he said. "I’ve been here many times, on my Wednesdays. A beautiful spot."

It was a beautiful spot. The road, a wagon track now, led up a gradual rise to a tree-topped crest. Hoag had him park under a tree, and they got out. Cynthia stood for a moment, drinking it in, and savoring deep breaths of the clean air. To the south Chicago could be seen and beyond it and east of it a silver gleam of the lake. "Teddy, isn’t it gorgeous?"

"It is," he admitted, but turned to Hoag. "What I want to know is—why are we here?"

"Picnic," said Hoag. "I chose this spot for my finale."

"Finale?"

"Food first," said Hoag. "Then, if you must, we’ll talk."

It was a very odd menu for a picnic; in place of hearty foods there were some dozens of gourmets’ specialties—preserved cumquats, guava jelly, little potted meats, tea—made by Haag over a spirit lamp—delicate wafers with a famous name on the package. In spite of this both Randall and Cynthia found themselves eating heartily. Hoag tried everything, never passing up a dish—but Cynthia noticed that he actually ate very little, tasting rather than dining.

In due course Randall got his courage up to brace Hoag; it was beginning to appear that Hoag had no intention of broaching the matter himself. "Hoag?"

"Yes, Ed?"

"Isn’t it about time you took off the false face and quit kidding us?"

"I have not kidded you, my friend."

"You know what I mean—this whole rat race that has been going on the past few days. You'reixed up in it and know more about it than we do—that’s evident. Mind you, not that I’m accusing

you of anything," he added hastily. "But I want to know what it means."

"Ask yourself what it means."

"O.K.," Randall accepted the challenge. "I will." He launched into the explanation which he had sketched out to Cynthia, Hoag encouraged him to continue it fully, but, when he was through, said nothing.