Mr. Bates eyed her warily. He knew perfectly well that emotion rather than heat had necessitated the tissue, and he obviously disapproved of women who wept.

"Yes. Only the information I have just given you, and the news that Mrs. MacDougal senior has arrived safely. I must add that had Professor MacDougal consulted me before arranging for a transfer of funds, 1 would have counseled him-"

"You needn't worry," Karen cut in. "I have no intention of abusing Pat's generosity. Now I wonder if you would mind reading these letters from my husband's lawyer. It may be a few days before I can get an appointment and they sound very peremptory."

Her quick recovery from ill-conceived emotion brought a frosty gleam of approval to Mr. Bates' pale-gray eyes. As he read the letters his nostrils quivered. "Hmph," he said. "It appears you may have a fight on your hands, Mrs. Nevitt. The offers are outrageous. I beg you will not reply in any way until you have consulted the attorney I will recommend to you."

Karen assured him she was not that stupid, and Mr. Bates looked as if he would like to have believed her but couldn't quite manage it.

There was no news about the missing automobile or the missing chauffeur. The police investigation had fizzled out-Mr. Bates didn't use the word, but that was what it amounted to. Yes, he had cabled Mrs. MacDougal about the car. He had not yet received a reply. He would let Karen know when he got word. He would give them all her love. And would she please-implicit in his manner, if not expressed-get the hell out of his office and let him go home?

The long summer twilight was dying as Karen stood on the corner waiting for a bus. The air was gray, not with twilight but with exhaust fumes, and according to an electric sign on a nearby corner, the temperature was still in the high eighties. No wonder Washingtonians fled the city in late July and August. The only wonder was that they had functioned so long without air-conditioning. The affectionate phrase, "the Federal Swamp," though it had acquired other connotations, had originally been a literal description of geographical fact.

A bus lumbered into sight but stopped half a block away as the traffic light turned red and cars and trucks barred its further progress. Karen glanced casually at the poised traffic, and suddenly froze. A brand-new bright-red, Ferrari convertible, in the middle lane… The top was down. The twin mufflers throbbed as the driver jiggled the gas pedal, ready to take off the instant the light changed.

As if the intensity of her stare sent out palpable waves, the driver turned his head and looked directly at her. His full red lips pursed like those of a girl expecting to be kissed. They shaped words. She couldn't hear them, but she knew what he had said. Before she could react, the light changed and the convertible took off like a bullet, narrowly avoiding a crossing van that had run the last second of the yellow.

Karen turned and bolted back into the building she had just left.

Mr. Bates drove her home. He could hardly avoid doing so; she had caught him as he emerged from the elevator, his car keys in his hand.

He felt sure she had been mistaken. "There are many men of that type," he said distastefully. "We had been speaking of the matter, so it was on your mind. I assure you, Horton is miles away by now. He would not be so foolish as to remain in the city."

"I know it was Horton. He knew me. He said, 'Hi, doll.'"

"But you informed me you could not hear-"

"I read his lips. He called me doll once before. Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Bates, can't you at least notify the police? It was a new red Ferrari with Virginia plates, and the first two letters were BV You know whom to talk to, and they'll pay more attention to you."

"Very well. However, I feel certain they will inform me that Horton has been seen in three other places, all miles from Washington."

Despite his skepticism he insisted on going to the door with her and on waiting until she had opened it. He didn't have to insist much. This time she managed to catch Alexander's collar while he was in mid-leap as Mr. Bates, obviously only too familiar with the dog's habits, skipped nimbly aside.

"Thank you," she said, as the lawyer cast a keen if seemingly casual glance inside. "I hope I haven't taken you out of your way."

"Not at all. I live in Chevy Chase; I can as easily go up Wisconsin as Connecticut."

Then why didn't you offer to drive me home in the first place? Karen wondered. Mr. Bates might make light of her identification of the chauffeur, but he wasn't altogether easy in his own mind or he would not have accompanied her home after hearing her story. Horton knew where she lived; he might even have a key to the house. Mrs. Mac probably had one, and she was notoriously careless with her possessions.

Thank goodness for the new locks, Karen thought. The darkening air was still breathlessly hot, but a shiver ran through her as she pictured Horton's big brown hands and fleshy, smiling mouth. She still could not believe Horton had been her attacker. But now he had a reason to seek her out. If he thought he could silence her before she told the police she had seen him…

She knew she was overreacting. Anyone who drove breezily around the city in a car as conspicuous as that one obviously wasn't concerned about being seen. Either Horton was extremely stupid, or he just didn't give a damn.

Alexander growled. He did not enjoy being hugged. Karen carried him back into the house and locked the door.

She wandered restlessly through the various rooms, turning on lights, checking and rechecking the locks on the doors and windows. The house was very quiet, very empty. She found herself hearing sounds that were not there-the ghostly echo of Pat's booming laughter, Ruth's quiet voice. If only they had been in some civilized part of the world she would have been tempted to call them. There was no one she could call, no familiar voice that was reachable by telephone.

Karen knew what was wrong with her. It had different names, some simple, some ponderous and scientific-shock, post-stress syndrome, whatever. It was, simply and starkly, an awareness of her own vulnerability. She was no more open to attack than she had ever been- less so, in fact, thanks to the new locks and her heightened awareness of danger. But her sense of safety had been violated; her private place had been entered by those who had no right to intrude. She had heard other victims of crime speak of the sensation. Now she knew how it made people feel-naked, exposed, helpless.

She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The refrigerator clicked; she jumped and cried out. I've got to stop this, she thought. I'll drive myself crazy if I go on this way. Find something to do, something to occupy my mind…

She made the rounds once more, compulsively relocking doors that were already locked, touching window latches, looking out into the street and the garden. Alexander ought to go out once more. Alexander would have to take his chances, that was all. Before she lured the dog upstairs with a handful of his favorite dog munchies, she pushed a chair against the back door and piled it with pots and pans.

She felt more relaxed after she had locked herself in her room and climbed into bed with a book. Pat had an enormous collection of mysteries; he favored the tough-private-eye variety, and Karen hoped the exotic and unlikely perils encountered by those fictitious heroes would distract her-rather like hitting oneself with a hammer to forget the pain of a broken leg.

It was not long before she knew she had made a mistake. The tough, wise-cracking PI was captured by members of the drug ring he was investigating. The author lingered with loving affection on the tortures inflicted by the chief villain-"a big, hulking character with a pretty pouting mouth like that of a girl expecting to be kissed."