"Mr. Cardoza," Karen said earnestly, "I think I love you."

"In that case, you'd better start calling me Tony."

"If you two have quite finished the compliments," said Mark, through tight lips, "I'd like to return to the case at hand."

"There isn't any case," Tony said, his patience wearing thin. "At least there's nothing we can follow up. If we had a description…"

"I didn't even see him," Karen said. "He grabbed me from behind and it was pitch-dark in the hall."

"You're sure it was a man?"

"Well, of course… No. No, I'm not sure of anything except that he, she, or it had two hands."

"No distinctive smell? After-shave, unwashed body…" He glanced at Mark. "Marijuana, alcohol?"

"I can't remember."

"Did you feel anything other than the hands? Cloth, hair, mustache, fur? Big hands or small? Calloused?"

Karen kept shaking her head. "I didn't see him or smell him or feel him or… Oh!"

Tony sat up alertly. "What?"

"I heard him," Karen said slowly. "He whispered. Right in my ear, the same words over and over, like a recording. 'Where is it, where is it, where is it?'"

THE memory of that obscene whisper was Karen's last coherent recollection. She was vaguely aware of voices and movement as Cheryl shooed the men out of the room, and she half-heard Cheryl's statement that she intended to spend the night. She was too drowsy to protest the offer even if she wanted to, which she emphatically did not. Once recalled, the whisper went on echoing in the corridors of her mind; she was almost afraid to go to sleep for fear it would follow her into her dreams.

However, she slept heavily and dreamlessly until she was awakened by a thud that shook the bed, and by a hot and not particularly sweet-smelling breath on her face. It was, of course, Alexander. The sight of his prize-winning ugliness only inches from her eyes was so horrible she promptly closed them again. Alexander bit her on the nose. Karen sat up with a shriek. Alexander retreated to the foot of the bed, where he sat down and began to bark.

The gist of his comments would have been plain to the slowest intelligence. When Karen looked at the clock she was forced to agree he was right. It was after nine o'clock. This was a workday, and she was supposed to be at the shop at eleven.

She got out of bed. Except for a sore throat, she felt remarkably well, and the sight of the confusion that still reigned in her room filled her with a burst of anger that sent the adrenaline pumping healthily through her veins. Cheryl had not had time to do more than fold and hang the crumpled garments over the chairs and bureau. The empty dangling sleeves and limp skirts looked pathetic. Most would need washing and ironing; at the thought of all her hours of wasted work, Karen stamped her foot and swore.

The door opened a crack before she had finished swearing and Cheryl's voice remarked, "I don't blame you, but maybe you should save your strength. Ready for breakfast?"

"You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Karen said.

"No trouble." Cheryl put the tray on the desk, which was practically the only uncluttered surface in the room. Sadly surveying the confusion, she shook her head. "It sure is a mess. But you know, you're lucky in a way; they're just dirty and wrinkled. I've heard of cases where the burglars got mad because they couldn't find drugs or money and they slashed everything with knives and-well-got them dirty…"

"I know." Karen sniffed appreciatively. "That coffee smells great. You are going to join me, I hope."

"I brought two cups." Cheryl pulled up a chair. Alexander, smelling bacon, came out from under the bed and squatted at her feet.

Karen scowled at him. "My, my, how charming you are when you smell food."

"He doesn't bite people out of meanness," Cheryl assured her. "It's just a habit. He sure is devoted to you, he wouldn't leave your room last night."

"That's a new twist. He's been barely civil."

Alexander put his front paws on Cheryl's knee and barked. Cheryl meekly handed over the strip of bacon she had been about to eat, and Alexander retreated under a chair, growling over his prize.

"He does look more cheerful today," Karen said. "I guess he needed an interest in life. There's nothing like a burglar to perk a dog up. But I can't give him any prizes as a watchdog."

"It wasn't his fault. He was shut up in the dining room. You look pretty cheerful yourself for someone who was half strangled last night. How do you feel?"

"My throat is a little sore, but otherwise I feel fine." Karen forced down a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Her stomach was still queasy, but she was grateful for Cheryl's efforts, and even more for Cheryl's willingness to pretend that nothing more distressing than an attempted burglary had occurred the previous night.

"I might be in much worse shape if you hadn't rushed to the rescue," she said. "It was very brave of you, Cheryl, but it was also very foolhardy. How did you get in? I seem to remember hearing the door slam…"

"Well, that was how I knew something was wrong. I figured you wouldn't slam the door in my face and leave me out there in the dark! Luckily you had left your keys in the lock. All I saw when I opened the door was something dark and shapeless, fading away into the shadows. By the time I turned on the light and made sure you weren't badly hurt and let Alexander out of the dining room, he'd gone out the back door. I should have chased him right away."

"Good Lord, no, you shouldn't have," Karen said sharply. "You did exactly right."

"You aren't mad because I called Mark?"

"No, I'm not mad at you." Karen took a deep breath and plunged into the subject she had avoided. It felt like jumping into a pool, not of water, but of some viscous slimy liquid. "I'm only sorry you had to overhear that telephone conversation."

"I didn't really hear anything."

"You heard enough to realize what was going on. You know Mark as well as… you know him better than I do; you've seen him look like that, you can imagine what was being said. Jack has a tongue like an adder; it leaves welts that sting for days. At least," Karen said, with a dreary little laugh, "Mark can derive some satisfaction from having his accusations confirmed. I called him paranoid and egotistical when he told me Jack's principal reason for marrying me was to get back at him. Now I know he was right. I ought to tell him so. It's the least I can do after subjecting him to that-that garbage."

"Stop it," Cheryl said sharply.

"Stop what?" Karen had expected sympathy; she had not expected to see a scowl darken Cheryl's face and hear the anger in her voice.

"Stop blaming yourself for everything. So you made a mistake. Everybody makes them. It's not your fault that your husband is a mean bastard. And Mark is a big boy. He's heard a helluva lot worse than your husband can dish out. He hears worse every day." Then she clasped her hand over her mouth. "I shouldn't have said that," she mumbled, behind it. "I'm so tactless…"

"You are tactful to a fault," Karen said, recovering from her surprise. "You've known about Jack and his- his little foibles all along, haven't you? And Mr. Cardoza- Tony-too. He wouldn't have been so quick to react if he hadn't heard plenty. I guess I can hardly blame Mark for sounding off to his best friends. He has good reason to detest me."

"There you go again. Have you always been little Mrs. Martyr? What did that man do to you?"

"It wasn't all Jack's fault," Karen said slowly. "I let him do it. I never was a very aggressive person. My sister was the tough one; she was smarter, prettier, older, taller… Cheryl, don't you dare laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"Well, maybe you should. It sounds pretty silly, doesn't it? Sara was-is-just great. She couldn't help being taller, older… What was she supposed to do, cut her feet off at the ankles and fail exams to make me feel more secure? Funny; I couldn't see that at the time-that it was my problem, not hers. Then she married Bruce, and they were so happy…Jack sure as hell didn't help. Not that he ever laid a hand on me. He just… cut me to ribbons inside, where it didn't show. Like that old jacket. Shattered silk… Slow corrosion, attacking the fabric at its weakest points."