"Why, yes. I assumed you had-"

"No. I didn't tell him."

"Then Mrs. MacDougal must have done so. Really," the lawyer said impatiently, "this is all beside the point, Mrs. Nevitt. Although I am convinced there is absolutely no connection between the two events, I do most strongly urge-"

"Yes, all right," Karen said abstractedly. "I'll come at seven-thirty. I also need the name of a good divorce lawyer."

"I will have the information for you this evening."

"Have you heard anything from-" Karen began. But the lawyer had hung up.

He was definitely annoyed with someone, and Karen suspected it wasn't she. Mark must have read him the riot act. It would be like Mark to concoct a wild theory just for the fun of getting the lawyer's back up. Mrs. MacDougal must have told Mark what she planned to do with Dolley's jewelry. Or possibly Cheryl had mentioned it to him.

She hung up and went back to the office. His feet on the desk, Rob was busily reading a paperback novel- one of the popular best-sellers focusing on the lives of the rich, dissolute, and famous. His look of profound concentration would not have deceived a child.

"I hope I talked loudly enough for you to hear without straining yourself," Karen said.

Rob put the book down and smiled sweetly. "It was fascinating, darling. I'm so pleased you've decided to press on with your divorce; it's a fatal mistake to delay these things. But what's all this about Mrs. MacDougal's car, and necklaces and urgent appointments?"

Karen couldn't remember having mentioned the car. Rob must have been listening in on the extension in the office. Rather than allow him to speculate and invent preposterous stories, she explained briefly.

Rob admitted he had heard about the Rolls. "So thrilling, like one of those super crime films." The necklace, which Karen described only as a relatively inexpensive personal memento, didn't appear to interest him. However, Karen made a point of mentioning that she intended to hand it over to the lawyer that evening.

In fact, Rob was the last person she would have suspected of trying to throttle her. He would have been more likely to scream and run when she caught him in the house. As for the Dolley Madison jewelry… Oh, surely it was absurd to think it was involved. The fact that the intruder had not found it was no proof that he had not looked for it, but no ordinary thief would be aware of its presence. No ordinary thief… Her assailant had been no ordinary thief. That thick, hoarse whisper… There were only two people, aside from Mr. Bates and Cheryl, who knew she had Dolley's jewelry.

No, Karen thought. It couldn't have been Horton. Horton would not have run from Cheryl. Horton's big-muscled hands could have snapped her neck like a twig.

At five o'clock she left Rob to lock up and hurried home. Alexander was waiting; he led her directly to his empty food dish. Not until the dog's demands had been satisfied did Karen see the note Cheryl had left. The locksmith had come and gone; the keys were on the hall table.

Karen went to look. The keys made a formidable heap; there were three for each new door lock, front and back, and several more for the elaborate latches that had been added to the downstairs windows.

It must have taken the locksmith most of the afternoon. Congressman Brinckley's influence, Karen thought; usually it took days to get a service person to come, even in an emergency. But who was she to complain?

She went back to the kitchen and finished reading Cheryl's note. "I hope you don't mind, I did a little mending and washing. Love working with those things. Have to go to some boring party tonight, will call if we aren't too late getting home."

The telephone rang while Karen was getting supper. It was Western Union with a cable for her and a complaint, rather than an apology, that they had tried to reach her earlier, without success. The cable read, "I'll get you for this someday, you traitor. Ruth sends love. I don't. Pat."

Karen decided she could safely conclude that Mrs. MacDougal had arrived on her son's doorstep, by gnu or some other means. Grinning, she put a diet TV dinner into the microwave and went upstairs to see what Cheryl had done. "A little" mending and washing turned out to be ludicrously understated. Many of the petticoats and chemises had been meticulously laundered and returned to their hangers. Across the bed lay several pieces of lace; all had been washed and ironed and one tattered strip had been neatly mended.

She was eating supper when the doorbell rang. Before she could get up she had to dislodge Alexander, who was sprawled across her feet. He had insisted on sampling the fish in her frozen dinner and had promptly spat it out. Now he followed her to the door, hoping for something that tasted better.

Instead of opening the door, Karen looked out through the small spy-hole. Though grotesquely distorted, the figure outside was definitely that of a woman.

There was nothing to be afraid of. It was still broad daylight outside, and whoever the caller might be, she was certainly not Mrs. Grossmuller. No distortion, however extreme, could make Mrs. Grossmuller's stocky figure look so slim.

But Karen left the chain in place when she opened the door. Alexander promptly lunged for the opening. The frown on the visitor's face deepened as she looked down at the furry muzzle trying to push through the crack.

"Shut that damned dog up," she said sharply.

Karen stared. What was Shreve Danforth-no, Shreve Givens now-doing on her doorstep? She was dressed for a formal dinner or party, in a glittering white dress that set off her deep tan. Diamonds winked at her throat and twinkled in the auburn hair that half-covered her ears. Shreve, who had been so rude the day she visited the shop; Mark's latest lady.

Shreve's silver shoe began to tap impatiently. "Well, are you going to let me in? I'm in rather a hurry."

"Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Just a minute."

Karen scooped up the dog and shut him in the kitchen. When she returned to the door, Shreve's foot was tapping faster and she was glancing ostentatiously at her watch.

Acutely conscious of her faded housecoat and bare feet, Karen admitted her visitor. She wished she could have thought of an excuse for refusing to do so; something like "Sorry, I think I'm catching the plague." The old habit of courtesy had prevailed, and it was too late now.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," she said. "I'm rather wary of letting people in until I'm sure who they are. Someone broke in here last night-"

"Oh, really?" Shreve's lips stretched into an expression that was not quite a smile. "I do hope nothing was taken."

"No. I had new locks put on, though. Mark was kind enough to send a locksmith around this afternoon."

Now why had she said that? Karen knew the answer, but she could have kicked herself for challenging an opponent like Shreve. The other woman's smile widened as she looked Karen over, from her unkempt hair to her dusty feet. Gently she said, "Mark has such a kind heart. He spends a lot of time with old Mrs. MacDougal too."

Well, I deserved that, Karen thought. I should have known better; I can't fight her on her terms.

With freezing politeness she said, "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"No." Shreve reached into her bag and took out a checkbook. "I just stopped by to get those things of Granny's. She had no right to sell them to you. The old witch is completely goofy. I believe you paid her seventy-five dollars?"

The amount she mentioned gave her bewildered listener the essential clue. "Mrs. Ferris is your grandmother?"

"Yes, didn't you know?" Shreve uncapped a gold pen and began to write, resting the checkbook on the hall table. "Seventy-five…"

"It was seventy-eight fifty, to be precise." Karen braced herself. "But I won't take your check."