She made no attempt to answer him, but crept closer to her husband. Randall put a protecting arm around her. Hoag spoke then to Randall. "And you, Edward? Is there something in this world for which you’d surrender your life and your soul if need be? You need not answer—I saw in your face and in your heart, last night, as you bent over the bed. Good art, good art—both of you. I have found several sorts of good and original art in this world, enough to justify encouraging your Artist to try again. But there was so much that was bad, poorly drawn and amateurish, that I could not find it in me to approve the work as a whole until I encountered and savored this, the tragedy of human love."

Cynthia looked at him wildly. "Tragedy? You say ‘tragedy’?"

He looked at her with eyes that were not pitying, but serenely appreciative. "What else could it be, my dear?"

She stared at him, then turned and buried her face on the lapel of her husband’s coat. Randall patted her head. "Stop it, Hoag!" he said savagely. "You’ve frightened her again."

"I did not wish to."

"You have. And I can tell you what I think of your story. It’s got holes in it you can throw a cat through. You made it up."

"You do not believe that."

It was true; Randall did not. But he went on bravely, his hand still soothing his wife. "The stuff under your nails—how about that? I noticed you left that out. And your fingerprints."

"The stuff under my nails has little to do with the story. It served its purpose, which was to make fearful the Sons of the Bird. They knew what it was."

"But what was it?"

"The ichor of the Sons—planted there by my other persona. But what is this about fingerprints? Jonathan Hoag was honestly fearful of having them taken; Jonathan Hoag is a man, Edward. You must remember that."

Randall told him; Hoag nodded. "I see. Truthfully, I do not recall it, even today, although my full persona knows of it. Jonathan Hoag had a nervous habit of polishing things with his handkerchief;erhaps he polished the arm of your chair."

"I don’t remember it."

"Nor do I."

Randall took up the fight again. "That isn’t all and that isn’t half of it. What about the rest home you said you were in? And who pays you? Where do you get your money? Why was Cynthia always so darned scared of you?"

Hoag looked out towards the city; a fog was rolling in from the lake. "There is little time for these things," he said, "and it does not matter, even to you, whether you believe or not. But you do believe—you cannot help it. But you have brought up another matter. Here." He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to Randall. "You might as well take them with you; I shall have no more use for them. I shall be leaving you in a few minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to myself. After I leave, you must do this: Get into your car and drive at once, south, through the city. Under no circumstances open a window of your car until you are miles away from the city."

"Why? I don’t like this."

"Nevertheless, do it. There will be certain—changes, readjustments going on."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you, did I not, that the Sons of the Bird are being dealt with? They, and all their works."

"How?"

Hoag did not answer, but stared again at the fog. It was creeping up on the city. "I think I must go now. Do as I have told you to do." He started to turn away. Cynthia lifted up her face and spoke to him.

"Don’t go! Not yet."

"Yes, my dear?"

"You must tell me one thing: Will Teddy and I be together?"

He looked into her eyes and said. "I see what you mean. I don’t know."

"But you must know!"

"I do not know. If you are both creatures of this world, then your patterns may run alike. But there are the Critics, you know."

"The Critics? What have they to do with us?"

"One, or the other, or both of you may be Critics. I would not know. Remember, the Critics are men—here. I did not even know myself as one until today." He looked at Randall meditatively. "He may be one. I suspected it once today."

"Am—I?"

"I have no way of knowing. It is most unlikely. You see, we can’t know each other, for it would spoil our artistic judgment."

"But ... but ... if we are not the same, then—"

"That is all." He said it, not emphatically, but with such a sound of finality that they were both startled. He bent over the remains of the feast and selected one more grape, ate it, and closed his eyes.

He did not open them. Presently Randall said, "Mr. Hoag?" No answer. "Mr. Hoag!" Still no answer. He separated himself from Cynthia, stood up, and went around to where the quiet figure sat. He shook him. "Mr. Hoag!"

"But we can’t just leave him there!" Randall insisted, some minutes later.

"Teddy, he knew what he was doing. The thing for us to do is to follow his instructions."

"Well—we can stop in Waukegan and notify the police."

"Tell them we left a dead man back there on a hillside? Do you think they would say, ‘Fine,’ and let us drive on? No, Teddy—just what he told us to do."

"Honey—you don’t believe all that stuff he was telling us, do you?"

She looked him in his eyes, her own eyes welling with tears, and said, "Do you? Be honest with me, Teddy."

He met her gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes and said, "Oh, never mind! We’ll do what he said. Get in the car."

The fog which appeared to have engulfed the city was not visible when they got down the hill and had started back toward Waukegan, nor did they see it again after they had turned south and drove toward the city. The day was bright and sunny, as it had started to be that morning, with just enough nip in the air to make Hoag’s injunction about keeping the windows rolled up tight seem like good sense.

They took the lake route south, skipping the Loop thereby, with the intention of continuing due south until well out of the city. The traffic had thickened somewhat over what it had been when they started out in the middle of the morning; Randall was forced to give his attention to the wheel. Neither of them felt like talking and it gave an excuse not to.

They had left the Loop area behind them when Randall spoke up, "Cynthia—"

"Yes."

"We ought to tell somebody. I’m going to ask the next cop we see to call the Waukegan station."

"Teddy!"

"Don’t worry. I’ll give him some stall that will make them investigate without making them suspicious of us. The old run-around—you know."

She knew his powers of invention were fertile enough to do such a job; she protested no more. A few blocks later Randall saw a patrolman standing on the sidewalk, warming himself in the sun, and watching some boys playing sand-lot football. He pulled up to the curb beside him. "Run down the window, Cyn."

She complied, then gave a sharp intake of breath and swallowed a scream. He did not scream, but he wanted to.

Outside the open window was no sunlight, no cops, no kids—nothing. Nothing but a gray and formless mist, pulsing slowly as if with inchoate life. They could see nothing of the city through it, not because it was too dense but because it was—empty. No sound came out of it; no movement showed in it.

It merged with the frame of the window and began to drift inside. Randall shouted, "Roll up the window!" She tried to obey, but her hands were nerveless; he reached across her and cranked it up himself, jamming it hard into its seat.

The sunny scene was restored; through the glass they saw the patrolman, the boisterous game, the sidewalk, and the city beyond. Cynthia put a hand on his arm. "Drive on, Teddy!"

"Wait a minute," he said tensely, and turned to the window beside him. Very cautiously he rolled it down—just a crack, less than an inch.