"Nice," I said, a bit later. "Pretty place."

"Uh-huh."

I glanced at him. Bill was looking back the way we'd come.

I lowered my voice. "Something there?"

"I caught a glimpse a little earlier," he whispered, "of someone else taking a walk this way-some distance behind us. Lost sight of him in all the turnings we took."

"Maybe I should take a stroll back."

"Probably nothing. It's a beautiful day. A lot of people do like to hike around here. Just thought that if we waited a few minutes he'd either show up or we'd know he'd gone somewhere else."

"Can you describe him?"

"Nope. Caught only the barest glimpse. I don't think it's anything to get excited about. It's just that thing about your story made me a little wary-or paranoid. I'm not sure which."

I found my own pipe and packed it and lit it and we waited. For fifteen minutes or so we waited. But no one showed.

Finally, Bill rose and stretched. "False alarm," he said. "I guess."

He started walking again and I fell in step beside him. "Then that Jasra lady bothers me," he said. "You say she seemed to trump in-and then she had that sting in her mouth that knocked you for a loop?"

"Right."

"Ever encounter anyone like her before?"

"No."

"Any guesses?" I shook my head.

"And why the Walpurgisnacht business? I can see a certain date having significance for a psycho, and I can see people in various primitive religions placing great importance on the turning of the seasons. But S seems almost too well organized to be a mental case. And as for the other-"

"Melman thought it was important."

"Yes, but he was into that stuff. I'd be surprised if he didn't come up with such a correspondence, whether it was intended or not. He admitted that his master had never told him that that was the case. It was his own idea. But you're the one with the background in the area. Is there any special significance or any real Bower that you know of to be gained by slaying someone of your blood at this particular time of year."

"None that I ever heard of. But of course there are a lot of things I don't know about. I'm very young compared to most of the adepts. But which way are you trying to go on this? You say you don't think it's a nut, but you don't buy the Walpurgis notion either."

"I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. They both sound shaky to me, that's all. For that matter, the French Foreign Legion gave everyone leave on April 30 to get drunk, and a couple of days after that to sober up. It's the anniversary of the battle of Camerone, one of their bi, triumphs. But I doubt that figures in this either."

"And why the sphinx?" he said suddenly. "Why a Trump that takes you someplace to trade dumb riddles or get your head bitten off ?"

"I'd a feeling it was more the latter that was intended."

"I sort of think so, too. But it's certainly bizarre. You know what?

I'll bet they're all that way-traps of some kind."

"Could be."

I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for them.

"Leave them," he said. "Let's not look for trouble. Maybe you should ditch them, at least for a while. I could put them in my safe, down at the office."

I laughed.

"Safes aren't all that safe. No thanks. I want them with me. There may be a way of checking them out without any risk."

"You're the expert. But tell me, could something sneak through from the scene on the card without you."

"No. They don't work that way. They require your attention to operate. More than a little of it."

"That's something, anyway. I-"

He looked back again. Someone was coming. I flexed my fingers, involuntarily.

Then I heard him let go a big breath.

"It's okay," he said. "I know him. It's George Hansen. He's the son of the guy who owns the farm we're behind. Hi, George!"

The approaching figure waved. He was of medium height and stocky build. Had sandy hair. He wore Levi's and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a pack of cigarettes twisted into its left sleeve. He looked to be in his twenties.

"Hi," he answered, drawing near. "Swell day, huh?"

"Sure is," Bill answered. "'That's why we're out walking in it, instead of sitting at home."

George's gaze shifted to me.

"Me, too," he said, raking his teeth over his lower lip. "Real good day"

"This is Merle Corey. He's visiting me."

"Merle Corey," George repeated, and he stuck out his hand. "Hi, Merle."

I took it and shook it. It was a little clammy.

"Recognize the name?"

"Uh Merle Corey," he said again.

"You knew his dad."

"Yeah? Oh, sure!"

"Sam Corey," Bill finished, and he shot me a glance over George's shoulder.

"Sam Corey," George repeated. "Son of a gun! Good to know you. You going to be here long?"

"A few days, I guess," I replied. "I didn't realize you'd known my father."

"Fine man," he said. "Where you from?"

"California, but it's time for a change."

"Where you headed?"

"Out of the country, actually."

"Europe?"

"Farther."

"Sounds great. I'd like to travel sometime."

"Maybe you will."

"Maybe. Well, I'Il be moving on. Let you guys enjoy your walk. Nice meeting you, Merle."

"My pleasure."

He backed away, waved, turned, and walked off.

I glanced at Bill then and noticed that he was shaking.

"What's the matter?" I whispered.

"I've known that boy all his life," he said. "Do you think he's on drugs?"

"Not the kind you have to make holes in your arms for. I didn't see any tracks. And he didn't seem particularly spacey."

"Yeah, but you don't know him the way I do. He seemed very different. It was just on impulse that I used the name Sam for your dad, because something didn't seem right. His speech patterns have changed, his posture, his gait. Intangibles. I was waiting for him to correct me, and then I could have made a joke about premature senility. But t didn't. He picked up on it instead. Merle, this is scary! He knew your father real well-as Carl Corey. Your dad liked to keep his place nice, but he was never much for weeding and mowing or raking leaves. George did his yard work fog him for years while he was in school. He knew his name wasn't Sam."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," he said, "and I don't like it."

"So he's acting weird-and you think he was following us?"

"Now I do. This is too much of a coincidence, timed with your arrival."

I turned.

"I'm going after him," I said. "I'll find out."

"No. Don't."

"I won't hurt him. There are other ways."

"It might be better to let him think he's got us fooled. It might encourage him to do something or say something later that could prove useful. On the other hand, anything you do-even something subtle or magical-might let him, or something, know that we're on to him. Let it ride, be grateful you're warned and be wary."

"You've got a point there," I agreed. "Okay "

"Let's head on back and drive into town for lunch. I want to stop by the office and pick up some papers and make some phone calls. Then I have to see a client at two o'clock. You can take the car and knock around while I' m doing that."

"Fine." As we strolled back I did some wondering. There were a number of things I had not told Bill. For instance, there had been no reason to tell him that I wore an invisible strangling cord possessed of some rather unusual virtues, woven about my left wrist. One of these virtues is that it generally warns me of nasty intentions aimed in my direction, as it had done in Luke's presence for almost two years until we became friends. Whatever the reason for George Hansen's unusual behavior, Frakir had not given me any indication that he meant me harm.