"Relax, will you? I'm not about to take unfair advantage of you, not with a cop right at my elbow…"

"I-uh," said Cardoza. "I guess I'll be running along."

"Please don't," Karen murmured. "I mean-I'd like to talk to you, about what happened."

Mark started up the stairs, moving as lightly as if he were carrying an empty dress. Karen could feel the hard muscles under his thin shirt, but for all the emotion he displayed he might as well have been carrying an empty dress. Why did I do that? Karen thought wretchedly-and then, with a spurt of anger, And why does he have to be so supersensitive?

"I'm not even here officially," Cardoza protested.

He was still at the foot of the stairs, still talking, when Mark carried Karen into her room. Her shriek brought him bounding up. "What the hell-"

"Look-just look!" Karen cried. "Look what he did! All my things-all over-I spent hours washing and ironing-"

"Please-stop-kicking," Mark gasped. "I don't want to drop you on your-"

"Put me down!"

"Where?"

It was a reasonable question. The mattress had been dragged off the bed, trailing sheets and blankets. Every drawer in the dresser and chifferobe stood open, the contents tumbled as if by a giant beater or tossed helter-skelter onto the floor.

Cardoza leaned against the doorjamb breathing heavily. "Don't scare me like that," he said furiously. "I know the room is a mess, I saw it. So are the other bedrooms-"

Karen burst into tears and buried her face against Mark's shoulder.

"Crying over a bunch of clothes," Cardoza said, shaking his head. "I'll never figure women out. There I was thinking what a cool lady you were, kidding me and smiling sweetly-"

"That's a chauvinist speech if I ever heard one," Cheryl snapped. "It was delayed shock, that's what it was. I'd like to see how you'd behave after somebody choked you half to death and scared the fits out of you. And what's more, Tony Cardoza-"

"Okay, okay." Cardoza smiled at Cheryl affectionately, as he might have smiled at a pretty child. "I should have warned her, I guess. You too, Cheryl, I thought you were going to start bawling too."

"If you knew how much time and effort it took to get those clothes so nice and pretty, you'd be more sympathetic. No, put that down; it's sweet of you to try and help, but you're just making more of a mess."

Karen was in her bed, which had been restored to its proper state. Murmuring distressfully, Cheryl was smoothing and folding the crumpled garments. Mark was sprawled in the one comfortable overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out, his expression dour. Cardoza occupied the desk chair; arms folded, one ankle resting on the other knee, he looked quite at home. In fact, there was something insanely cozy about the whole business, and they were all drinking tea-which Cheryl seemed to consider a universal panacea-except Cardoza, who held a can of beer.

"I'm not driving," he had explained gravely. "But Mark can't have any."

Karen felt rather like a medieval monarch holding court, as those gentry were wont to do in their bedrooms, but even more like a sick child being visited by the grownups. Cheryl had bundled her into the least crumpled of the white nightgowns; it had long sleeves with ruffles on the cuffs, and it buttoned clear up to its ruffled neckline.

"So he got in through a window," Mark said.

"Must have. The back door was standing open, but we can assume he unlocked it after he entered the house- in preparation for the conventional quick getaway. The lock hadn't been tampered with, and one of the downstairs windows was unlocked."

"Stupid," said Mark, looking at Karen.

Cardoza came to her defense. "Those old window locks are easy to force. Too bad people around here are so set on their antiques; the wooden frames are so warped you can get a crowbar in the crack between the sashes."

"Fingerprints," said Mark. "Footprints."

"Mark, we've been over this a dozen times," Cardoza said patiently. "The back yard is all grass and graveled paths and nice neat mulch. Not a patch of handy mud anywhere. The guy got on the roof of the garden shed and went over the wall. As for fingerprints-sure, they'll check, but most crooks know enough these days to wear gloves."

"In the middle of the summer? Your favorite junkie, who is supposedly too strung-out to know which end his head is on?"

"What are you trying to suggest-that Mrs. Nevitt has a secret enemy who's out to strangle her?" Cardoza demanded.

Karen's eyes opened wide. "Hey, wait-"

"No, of course not," Mark muttered.

"He was alone," Cardoza said. "Cheryl only saw one person-nothing more than a shadow, actually. If there had been two of them or more, they might have… well, they might not have run away. So it wasn't a gang. Gangs go after TV sets, hi-fi's, things like that. This guy tore up the bedrooms, not the downstairs. He was looking for money or for jewelry-something small and portable he could hock. That's the obvious, rational conclusion, and I'm damned if I can see why you're trying to make something more out of it."

"I'm not. I just don't understand why-"

The telephone rang, and Mark reached across Karen and picked it up. "Hello? Yes, she's here, but she isn't able to talk right now. May I take… What? My name is Brinckley. Mark Brinckley. Who is this?"

In the silence that followed they heard the far-off voice quacking unintelligibly. A wave of dull crimson moved slowly up Mark's face from the base of his throat to his hairline.

Karen sat up. She had seen the phenomenon before. It was not a sign of shame or embarrassment; Mark was never embarrassed. It was pure red rage.

"Give me the phone," she said, and took it from his hand. "Hello, Jack."

"I've been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?"

"Out."

"Obviously. Why haven't you answered the letters from my lawyer?"

The cool incisive voice, with its peremptory tone, affected her as it always had. Instead of replying in kind, she heard herself mutter feebly, "I haven't been… I was a little upset…"

"Not too upset to console yourself, I see. It was rather careless of Brinckley to answer the telephone at this hour of the night. Adultery is still grounds for divorce in this state, and some judges are influenced by it when it comes to alimony."

"But I didn't-"

"Not that I have any objections. Being a fair-minded man, I felt obliged to point out the legal complications you may incur. Personally I'm relieved that you have found a protector. You are quite incapable of managing your life by yourself. It's decent of Brinckley to take you back. Some men might be more particular about secondhand goods. But he never was very fastidious."

His voice had risen in pitch and in intensity. "Hang up," Mark said suddenly.

"What?" Karen felt dazed. Jack was still talking; he sounded shrill and hysterical.

"Hang up the phone."

"Oh." Karen obeyed. She wiped her hand on the bedspread.

Said Cardoza, staring into space, "You can get a restraining order, you know."

The telephone rang again. Mark picked it up. He was about to slam it back into the cradle, unanswered, when Cardoza said casually, "Do you mind if I…"

Mark's angry color subsided. Smiling grimly, he handed over the telephone. Karen said nothing. She felt bruised and sick with shame. She had a good idea of what Jack had said to Mark.

"This is Detective Cardoza of the D.C. police," Cardoza announced. "Who's this?"

The reply was inaudible. Cardoza grinned and winked at Karen. "Mrs. Nevitt's home was broken into tonight and she was assaulted. Where did you say you were calling from? I see. You have witnesses who can verify that, I suppose?"

The quacking began again. Cardoza's smile broadened, displaying even white teeth. "Yes, I'm sure you are concerned. I'll tell her that. Good night, Mr. Nevitt." He hung up. "That should take care of him."