'I'll let you know immediately -'

'This,' said Graham, 'is the first page. Why don't you begin -it? It will grip you instantly.'

MacDunlap read two paragraphs and said, 'Is this laid in a coal-mining town?'

'Yes.'

'Then I can't read it. I'm allergic to coal dust.'

'But it's not real coal dust, Macldiot.'

'That,' pointed out MacDunlap, 'is what you said about de Meister.'

Reginald de Meister tapped a cigarette carefully on the back of his hand in a subtle manner which Graham immediately recognized as betokening a sudden decision.

'That is all devastatin'ly borin', you know. Not quite gettin' to the point, you might say. Go ahead, MacDunlap, this is no time for half measures.'

MacDunlap girded his spiritual loins and said, 'All right Mister Dorn, with you it's no use being nice. Instead of de Meister, I'm getting coal dust. Instead of the best publicity in fifty years, I'm getting social significance. All right, Mister Smartaleck Dorn, if in one week you don't come to terms with me, good terms, you will be blacklisted in every reputable publishing firm in the United States and foreign parts.' He shook his finger and added in a shout, 'Including Scandinavian.'

Graham Dorn laughed lightly, 'Pish,' he said, 'tush. I happen to be an officer of the Author's Union, and if you try to push me around I'll have you blacklisted. How do you like that?'

'I like it fine. Because supposing I can prove you're a plagiarist.'

'Me,' gasped Graham, recovering narrowly from merry suffocation. 'Me, the most original writer of the decade.'

'Is that so? And maybe you don't remember that in each case you write up, you casually mention de Meister's notebooks on previous cases.'

'So what?'

'So he has them. Reginald, my boy, show Mister Dorn your notebook of your last case. - You see that. That's Mystery of the Milestones and it has, in detail, every incident in your book - and dated the year before the book was published. Very authentic.'

'Again so what?'

'Have you maybe got the right to copy his notebook and call it an original murder mystery?'

'Why, you case of mental poliomyelitis, that notebook is my invention.'

'Who says so? It's de Meister's handwriting, as any expert can prove. And maybe you have a piece of paper, some little contract or agreement, you know, that gives you the right to use his notebooks?'

'How can I have an agreement with a mythical personage?'

'What mythical personage?'

'You and I know de Meister doesn't exist.'

'Ah, but does the jury know? When I testify that I took three strong liver pills and he didn't disappear, what twelve men will say he doesn't exist?'

'This is blackmail.'

'Certainly. I'll give you a week. Or in other words, seven days.'

Graham Dorn turned desperately to de Meister. 'You're in on this, too. In my books I give you the keenest sense of honor. Is this honorable?'

De Meister shrugged. 'My dear fellow. All this - and haunting, too."

Graham rose.

'Where are you going?'

'Home to write you a letter.' Graham's brows beetled defiantly. 'And this time I'll mail it. I'm not giving in. I'll fight to the last ditch. And, de Meister, you let loose with one single little haunt and I'll rip your head out of its socket and spurt the blood all over MacDunlap's new suit.'

He stalked out, and as he disappeared through the door, de Meister disappeared through nothing at all.

MacDunlap let out a soft yelp and then took a liver pill, a kidney pill, and a tablespoon of cough syrup in rapid succession.

Graham Dorn sat in June's front parlor, and having long since consumed his fingernails, was starting on the first knuckles.

June, at the moment, was not present, and this, Graham felt, was just as well. A dear girl; in fact, a dear, sweet girl. But his mind was not on her.

It was concerned instead with a miasmic series of flashbacks over the preceding six days:

— Say, Graham, I met your side-kick at the club yesterday. You know, de Meister. Got an awful shock. I always had the idea he was a sort of Sherlock Holmes that didn't exist. That's one on me, boy. Didn't know - Hey, where are you going?

— Hey, Dorn, I hear your boss de Meister is back in town. Ought to have material for more stories soon. You're lucky you've got someone to grind out your plots ready-made - Huh? Well, good-bye.

— Why, Graham, darling, wherever were you last night? Ann's affair didn't get anywhere without you; or at least, it wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for Reggie de Meister. He asked after you; but then, I guess he felt lost without his Wat son. It must feel wonderful to Watson for such- Mister Dorn! And the same to you, sir!

— You put one over on me. I thought you made up those wild things. Well, truth is stranger than fiction, ha, ha!

Police officials deny that the famous amateur criminologist Reginald tie Meister has interested himself in this case. Mr. de Meister himself could not be reached by our reporters for comment. Mr. de Meister is best known to the public for his brilliant solutions to over a dozen crimes, as chronicled in fiction form by his so-called 'Watson,' Mr. Grayle Doone.

Graham quivered and his arms trembled in an awful desire for blood. De Meister was haunting him - but good. He was losing his individuality, exactly as had been threatened.

It gradually dawned upon Graham that the monotonous ringing noise he heard was not in his head, but, on the contrary, from the front door.

Such seemed likewise the opinion of Miss June Billings, whose piercing call shot down the stairs and biffed Graham a sharp uppercut to the ear-drums.

'Hey, dope, see who's at the front door, before the vibration tears the house down. I'll be down in half an hour.'

'Yes, dear!'

Graham shuffled his way to the front door and opened it.

'Ah, there. Greetin's,' said de Meister, and brushed past.

.Graham's dull eyes stared, and then fired high, as an animal snarl burst from his lips. He took up that gorilla posture, so comforting to red-blooded American males at moments like this, and circled the slightly-confused detective.

'My dear fellow, are you ill?'

'I,' explained Graham, 'am not ill, but you will soon be past all interest in that, for I am going to bathe my hands in your heart's reddest blood.'

'But I say, you'll only have to wash them afterwards. It would be such an obvious clue, wouldn't it?'

'Enough of this gay banter. Have you any last words?'

'Not particularly.'

'It's just as well. I'm not interested in your last words."

He thundered into action, bearing down upon the unfortunate de Meister like a bull elephant. De Meister faded to the left, shot out an arm and a foot, and Graham described a parabolic arc that ended in the total destruction of an end table, a vase of flowers, a fish-bowl, and a five-foot section of wall.

Graham blinked, and brushed away a curious goldfish from his left eyebrow.

'My dear fellow,' murmured de Meister, 'oh, my dear fellow.'

Too late, Graham remembered that passage in Pistol Parade:

De Meister's arms were whipcord lightning, as with sure, rapid thrusts, he rendered the two thugs helpless. Not by brute force, but by his expert knowledge of judo, he defeated them easily without hastening his breath. The thugs groaned in pain.

Graham groaned in pain.

He lifted his right thigh an inch or so to let his femur slip back into place.

'Hadn't you better get up, old chap?'

'I will stay here,' said Graham with dignity, 'and contemplate the floor in profile view, until such time as it suits me or until such time as I find myself capable of moving a muscle. I don't care which. And now, before I proceed to take further measures with you, what the hell do you want?'

Reginald de Meister adjusted his monocle to a nicety. 'You know, I suppose, that MacDunlap's ultimatum expires tomorrow?'

'And you and he with it, I trust.'

'You will not reconsider.'

'Ha!'

'Really,' de Meister sighed, 'this is borin' no end. You have made things comfortable for me in this world. After all, in your books you've made me well-known in all the clubs and better restaurants, the bosom friend, y'know, of the mayor and commissioner of police, the owner of a Park Avenue penthouse and a magnificent art collection. And it all lingers over, old chap. Really quite affectin'.'

'It is remarkable,' mused Graham, 'the intensity with which I am not listening and the distinctness with which I do not hear a word you say.'

'Still,' said de Meister, 'there is no denyin' my book world suits me better. It is somehow more fascinatin', freer from dull logic, more apart from the necessities of the world. In short, I must go back, and to active participation. You have till tomorrow! '

Graham hummed a gay little tune with flat little notes.

'Is this a new threat, de Meister?'

'It is the old threat intensified. I'm going to rob you of every vestige of your personality. And eventually public oninion will force you to write as, to paraphrase you, de Meister's Compleat Stooge. Did you see the name the newspaper chappies pinned on you today, old man?'

'Yes, Mr. Filthy de Meister, and did you read a half-column item on page ten in the same paper. I'll read it for you: "Noted Criminologist in 1-A. Will be inducted shortly draft board says."'

For a moment, de Meister said and did nothing. And then, one after another, he did the following things: removed his monocle slowly, sat down heavily, rubbed his chin abstractedly, and lit a cigarette after long and careful tamping. Each of these, Graham Dorn's trained authorial eye recognized as singly representing perturbation and distress on the part of his character.

And never, in any of his books, did Graham remember a time when de Meister had gone through all four consecutively.

Finally, de Meister spoke. 'Why you had to bring up draft registrations in your last book, I really don't know. This urge to be topical; this fiendish desire to be up to the minute with the news is the curse of the mystery novel. A true mystery is timeless; should have no relation to current events; should-'

'There is one way,' said Graham, 'to escape induction -'

'You might at least have mentioned a deferred classification on some vital ground.'

There is one way,' said Graham, 'to escape induction -'

'Criminal negligence,' said de Meister.

'Look! Go back to the books and you'll never be filled with lead.'

'Write them and I'll do it.'

'Think of the war.'

'Think of your ego.'

Two strong men stood face to face (or would have, if Graham weren't still horizontal) and neither flinched.

Impasse!

And the sweet, feminine voice of June Billings interrupted and snapped the tension: