The springs of the armchair creaked.

“I must go,” the doctor said. “I’ll barely make it as it is. I’ll call you when I get back, Michael.”

“But what am I going to do?”

“What are you looking for, free advice? It’s your problem.”

“Consoling as always.”

“You’ve already made up your mind what to do. You just want me to agree with you. You’re planning to telephone the bereaved husband and tell him his wife was here?”

“I have no choice about that.”

“Perhaps not. Good-bye, Michael.”

“Here’s your briefcase… Your Olympian detachment is all very well, but this isn’t a remote, academic problem. She’s on the loose right this minute, contracting pneumonia by walking around in the rain without any shoes on, if nothing worse. I don’t like the role of informer; but for her own safety I must tell Randolph that she was here. Maybe he can-”

“ Randolph?”

Linda heard the sound of the front door opening. The voices had gotten fainter; but the change in the doctor’s tone came from some other cause than distance.

“This is Gordon Randolph’s wife you’ve been talking about?”

“I thought I shouldn’t mention names.”

“No…Damn it, I’m late now. I’ll break my usual rule, Michael, and give you one word of advice, if you’ll walk downstairs with me. If you should hear anything…”

Linda was on her knees, oblivious of the danger of discovery; but strain as she might, she could make out no further words, only a mutter of voices as the two men descended the stairs. She crawled out of her hiding place, over the prostrate form of Napoleon, who snarled affably at her as she passed. Her cramped muscles complained as she stood upright. Overriding physical discomfort was the agony of indecision that racked her mind.

She went to the door and looked warily out into the empty living room. The lights still burned and the front door stood open. Michael was a trusting soul… From below, amplified by the funnel of the stairwell, the rumble of voices floated up.

Briefly she fought the wild, dangerous urge to rush down the stairs and catch him before he left. But she knew she couldn’t take the chance. They all talked that way, the ones who considered themselves liberal and sophisticated; but when it came to action, they balked at the final conclusion. If she could only talk to him at her leisure, with some means of escape at hand in case he turned out to be the broken reed all the others had been… Too late for that now. Too late for anything but escape.

In her arms she still clutched the coat and purse, which she had been holding for so long. Darting across the room, she scooped up her shoes and went out the door. She reached the floor below just before Michael’s head came into view, and cowered in the shadow of the stairs as he went past. If he had turned his head he would have seen her; but he went quickly, intent on his next move. The telephone; Gordon. And Gordon would see through her trick. He knew her habits and he wouldn’t accept the obvious without checking. She would have to hurry. Gordon would come. Hurry…

The door above slammed shut and Linda fled down the stairs, her stockinged feet making no sound. The front door of the building opened and closed, and a slight dark form blended with the darkness of the night, and disappeared.

WHEN MICHAEL DISCOVERED THE TRICK SHE HAD played on him, his first reaction was anger-not at his own stupidity, but at Linda. Gordon, who had just come back after an inspection of the alley under the fire escape, smile wryly at his expression.

“I know just how you feel, but don’t let it get you.”

“You told me she was intelligent,” Michael said, recovering. “I should have believed you.”

Gordon’s smile faded.

“The operative word is not intelligence. There’s a special kind of cunning developed by people in her condition… Oh, hell, Mike, I’m still trying to mince words. I’m sorrier than I can say that you got dragged into this mess; but now that you are involved, it would be stupid of me to hold anything back.”

Michael couldn’t help remembering that it was Gordon who had dragged him into the mess. Then his annoyed vanity faded at the sight of Gordon’s tormented face, and he shrugged.

“I feel very bad about letting her get away. If I had realized how sick she was-”

“Precisely why you shouldn’t feel guilty. It was my fault for understating the problem. Let’s forget that and go on to something constructive.”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to trace her? There’s a subway station in the next block; cabs aren’t too frequent around here…”

“Briggs is already on that,” Gordon said.

“Oh. Sure.”

Another unwelcome memory recurred to Michael-the look of unconcealed repugnance on Linda’s face whenever she saw Briggs. Surely he wasn’t the best person to send after a frightened woman… He shrugged the doubt away. It was none of his business.

“How about a drink?”

“No, thanks; I’d better get moving.”

But Gordon appeared to be in no hurry; drawing on his gloves with deliberate care, he managed to look poised and aristocratic in spite of his obvious worry. By just standing there he made the shabby little room look shabbier. His keen black eyes moved around, lingering on the paper-strewn desk.

“How do you feel about the biography now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve put quite a bit of work into it…”

“Have you really?” Gordon’s dark gaze swung back to Michael. “Whom have you talked to? Or should I ask that?”

“Oh, sure, why not? I started with the colleges. You made quite an impression at both of them.”

“They all mouth the conventional academic baloney,” Gordon said cynically. “Wait till you talk to my former political cohorts. They won’t be so complimentary.”

“They were somewhat annoyed at your retirement, I suppose.”

“A euphemism.” Gordon smiled. “But by all means talk with them; you’ll get an interesting view of my personality. Well. I’ll be in touch, Mike.”

“Please do. I’m concerned too.”

When Gordon finally went, Michael dropped into the big overstuffed chair and put all ten fingers in his hair.

She had looked so young.

The glamorous hostess in her expensive gowns had seemed mature; the shrewish wife had a woman’s cruelty. But she wasn’t that many years out of college; she must be ten, even fifteen, years younger than Gordon. And when she sat huddled in his big chair, with the rain dripping down onto her pale cheeks, she had looked about sixteen. Her hands and feet were as fragile as a child’s; the sodden shoes had been no longer than his hands.

Yes, he reminded himself, and she had presence of mind enough to take those pathetic little slippers with her when she outfoxed him. Poor little Cinderella? Rich little Lucrezia Borgia was more like it. But still he sat motionless, head in his hands, his fingers contracting as if their pressure could force from his mind the picture that persisted through every conscious doubt-the picture of a slight, dark figure running down a dusky corridor, growing smaller and more tenuous as it fled, until it finally vanished into air.