On Monday morning, as Qwilleran and Bunsen drove to Lost Lake Hills to inspect the Noyton house, Qwilleran was unusually quiet. He had not slept well. All night he had dreamed and waked and dreamed again-about interiors decorated in Crunchy Peanut Butter and Rice Pudding, with accents of Lobster and Blackstrap Molasses. And in the morning his mind was plagued by unfinished, unfounded, unfavorable thoughts.

He greatly feared that Cokey was involved in the "practical joke" on the Fluxion, and he didn't want it to be that way; he needed a friend like Cokey. He was haunted, moreover, by the possibility of Tait's complicity in the plot, although his evidence was no more concrete than a disturbance on his upper lip and a peculiar experience with the dictionary. He entertained doubts about Paolo's role in the affair; was he an innocent bystander, clever criminal, accomplice, or tool?

And was Tait's love affair with his jade collection genuine or a well-rehearsed act? Had the man been as devoted to his wife as people seemed to think? Was there, by any chance, another woman in his life? Even the name of the Taits' cat was veiled in ambiguity. Was it Yu or Freya?

Then Qwilleran's thoughts turned to his own cat. Once before, when the crime was murder, Koko had flushed out more clues with his cold wet nose than the Homicide Bureau had unearthed by official investigation. Koko seemed to sense without the formality of cogitation. Instinct, it appeared, bypassed his brain and directed his claws to scratch and his nose to sniff in the right place at the right time. Or was it happenstance? Was it a coincidence that Koko turned the pages of the dictionary to hungerly and feed when breakfast was behind schedule?

Several times on Sunday afternoon Qwilleran had suggested playing the word game, hoping for additional revelations, but the catchwords that Koko turned up were insignificant: oppositional and optimism, cynegetic and cypripedium.

Qwilleran entertained little optimism; and cypripedium, which turned out to be a type of orchid also called lady's- slipper, only reminded him of Cokey's toes wiggling in the luxuriant pile of the goat-hair rug.

Still, Qwilleran's notion about Koko and the dictionary persisted. A tremor ran through Qwilleran's moustache.

Odd Bunsen, at the wheel of the car, asked: "Are you sick or something? You're sitting there shivering and not saying a word." "It's chilly," said Qwilleran. "I should have worn a topcoat." He groped in his pocket for his pipe.

"I brought a raincoat," said Bunsen. "The way the wind's blowing from the northeast, we're going to get a storm.

The trip to Lost Lake Hills took them through the suburbs and into farm country, where the maple trees were beginning to turn yellow. From time to time the photographer gave a friendly toot of the horn and wave of his cigar to people on the side of the road. He saluted a woman cutting grass, two boys on bicycles, an old man at a rural mailbox.

"You have a wide acquaintance in this neck of, the woods," Qwilleran observed.

"Me? I don't know them from Adam," said Bunsen, "but these farmers can use a little excitement. Now they'll spend the whole day figuring who they know that drives a foreign car and smokes cigars." They turned into a country road that showed the artful hand of a landscape designer, and Qwilleran read the directions from a slip of paper. " 'Follow the lakeshore, first fork to the left, turn in at the top of the hill. " "When did you make the arrangements for this boondoggle?" the photographer wanted to know.

"At Lyke's party Saturday night." "I hope they were sober. I don't put any stock in cocktail promises, and this is a long way to drive on a wild-goose chase." "Don't worry. Everything's okay. Natalie wants David to get some credit for decorating the house, and Harry Noyton is hoping our story will help him sell the place. The property's worth a quarter million." "I hope his wife doesn't get a penny of it," Bunsen said. "Any woman who'll give up her kids, the way she did, is a tramp." Qwilleran said: "I got another phone call from Denmark this morning. Noyton wants his mail forwarded to Aarhus.

That's a university town. I wonder what he's doing there." "He sounds like a decent guy. Wouldn't you know he'd get mixed up with a dame like that?" "I don't think you should judge Natalie until you've met her," Qwilleran said. "She's sincere. Not overly bright, but sincere. And I have an idea people take advantage of her gullibility." The house at the end of the winding drive was of complex shape, its pink-brick walls standing at odd angles and its huge roof timbers shooting off in all directions.

"It's a gasser!" said Bunsen. "How do you find the front door?" "Lyke says the house is organic contemporary. It's integrated with the terrain, and the furnishings are integrated with the structure." They rang the doorbell, and while they waited they studied the mosaic murals that flanked the entrance-swirling abstract designs composed of pebbles, colored glass, and copper nails.

"Crazy!" said Bunsen.

They waited a considerable time before ringing the bell again.

"See? What did I tell you?" the photographer said. "No one home." "It's a big house," said Qwilleran. "Natalie I probably needs roller skates to get from her weaving studio to the front door." A moment later there was a click in the lock, and the door swung inward a few inches, opened with caution. A woman in a maid's uniform stood there, guarding the entrance inhospitably.

"We're from the Daily Fluxion," Qwilleran said.

"Yes?" said the maid, standing her ground.

"Is Mrs. Noyton home?" "She can't see anybody today." The door began to close.

"But we have an appointment." "She can't see anybody today." Qwilleran frowned. "We've come a long way. She told us we could see the house. Would she mind if we took a quick look around? We expect to photograph it for the paper." "She doesn't want anybody to take pictures of the house," the maid said. "She changed her mind." The newsmen turned to look at each other, and the door snapped shut in their faces.

As they drove back to town, Qwilleran brooded about the rude rejection. "It doesn't sound like Natalie. What do you suppose is wrong? She was very friendly and agreeable Saturday night." "People are different when they're drinking." "Natalie was as sober as I was. Maybe she's ill, and the maid took it on herself to brush us off." "If you want my opinion," said Bunsen, "I think your Natalie is off her rocker." "Stop at the first phone booth," said Qwilleran. "I want to make a call." From a booth at a country crossroad the newsman dialed the studio of Lyke and Starkweather and talked to David. "What's going on?" he demanded. "We drove all the way to Lost Lake Hills, and Natalie refused to see us. The maid wouldn't even let us in to look at the layout." "Natalie's a kook," David said. "I apologize for her. I'll take you out there myself one of these days." "Meanwhile, we're in a jam — with a Wednesday deadline and no really strong story for the cover." "If it will help you, you can photograph my apartment," said David. "You don't have to give me a credit line. Just write about how people live at the Villa Verandah." "All right. How about this afternoon? How about two o'clock?" "Just give me time to buy some flowers and remove some art objects," the decorator said. "There are a few things I wouldn't want people to know I have. Just between you and me, I shouldn't even have them." The newsmen had a leisurely lunch. When they eventually headed for the Villa Verandah, Qwilleran said, "Let's stop at the pet shop on State Street. I want to buy something." They were battling the afternoon traffic in the downtown area. At every red light Bunsen saluted certain attractive pedestrians with the motorist's wolf whistle, touching his foot tenderly to the accelerator as they passed in front of his car.