The night was chill, and speeding north it grew colder. In the heaterless car Carol shivered and snuggled close to her husband. He patted her protectively, remarked that it was a shame they had had to give up the convertible. "It was a nice car. I imagine you put a lot of thought into picking it out, didn't you?"

"Oh, well-" Carol's small shoulder shrugged against his. "It was nice of you to say that, Doc," she added. "Even to think about me being disappointed or uncomfortable at a time like this."

Doc said it was nothing at all; it came perfectly natural to anyone as generally splendid as he. Carol reproved him with a delicate pinch.

They rode cozily shoulder to shoulder, and somehow, despite the dropping temperature, the car seemed to grow warmer. Carol was comfortably pert. Doc was Doc; tender, amusing, restful-exuding the contagious good humor of complete self-confidence.

So it had been on nights past. The good nights (the good seems always to be in the past) before Doc's prison stretch. Just what broke the spell Carol could not have said. But gradually she found herself withdrawing; moving over to her own side of the seat. Gradually she began to study Doc's words, the tone of his voice, the play of expression over his homelyhandsome face.

Doc may or may not have noticed the change-may or may not have without knowing which was the case. Characteristically, and up to a point, he did not always allow himself to know what he thought or what he felt. He had come to a decision, decided on a certain course of conduct. If an obstacle could not be circumvented, ignore it. As long as it could be. Or until a better course suggested itself.

A couple of hours before dawn, he refueled the car from the two gas cans. Driving on again, he at last asked Carol if something was troubling her. "If I've done or said anything…"

"You haven't," she said."! suppose that that's- well, never mind. Don't pay any attention to me, Doc."

"Now, of course, I'll pay attention to you," Doc said genially. "Now and at all other times. So let's get this thing straightened out, whatever it is."

"Well, it's really nothing, but-" she hesitated, laughed with nervous apology. "I guess it just occurred to me that if you-if you felt a certain way, I probably wouldn't know it."

"Yes?" His voice tilted upward. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I'm talking about Beynon!"

"Beynon?" He gave her a curious look. "But what's there to say about him? You explained everything. I believed you. It's all settled."

Silence closed over the car again. They raced through the headlight-tunneled night, and the black walls slapped shut behind them. Time and space were the immediate moment. Behind and beyond it there was only the darkness.

Doc shifted in the seat and got cigarettes out of his pocket. He lighted two of them and passed one to her. And after a time, after it was finished, she drew close to him again.

He drew her a trifle closer. He pulled the tail of his topcoat from beneath him and tucked it over her knees.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Better," she nodded. Because it was. It was warmer. Friend or foe, there was at least someone with her, and anything was better than the utter loneliness.

"I understood what you were talking about," he went on quietly. "I simply didn't know how to reply to it. Or what to do about it."

"I know, Doc."

"It leaves me without a corner to go to. If I'm agreeable, it's pretense. If I'm not, that also is cause for alarm. You see, my dear? You just can't think that way. It's foolish and it's dangerous, and-you do see that don't you?"

"I see it," she nodded; and then desperately, with what was almost a cry, "Then it is all right, Doc? Honestly? You're not sore or suspicious about- anything? Everything's just like it always was?"

"I said so. I've done everything I could to show you."

"But you might do that anyway! You might act just as sweet as pie, and all the time you'd be planning t-to-to…"

"Carol," said Doc soothingly. "My poor darling little girl."

And she sobbed harshly, sighed, and fell asleep against his shoulder.

It was early afternoon when Doc let Carol out at Kansas City's Union Railroad Terminal. Being much the «cooler» of the two of them-much less likely to be identified-she kept the money satchel with her. While Doc drove away to dispose of the car, she entered the station and headed for the coach ticket windows. At one of them she bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. At another, far removed, she bought a second one. Then, hesitantly, with a look at the lobby clock, she again picked up the money bag and her overnight case.

It was almost an hour until train time-Doc had previously checked the schedule by telephone. He wouldn't be showing up until the next to last minute, so she had almost an hour to kill-and to remain in sole custody of approximately two hundred and fifty thousand very hot, very bloody dollars.

She had never faced such nerve-wracking responsibility before. It had had to be hers, but still, with part of her mind, she was resentful that it had been thrust upon her.

She looked around the vaulted lobby, then, lurching a little from the weight of the bag, she started for the women's rest room. After a dozen steps or so, she set the bag down, started to shift it to her other hand. And in a blur of movement-in her fear and nervousness it seemed a blur-she saw it snatched up from the floor.

It was a redcap, one of several who had so far proffered their services. But at the moment he had no identity for Carol. He was just a hand, an arm, a half-turned back-a something that was about to make off with the bag.

Taking in her expression, he said, "Hope I didn't startle you, ma'am. Just thought I'd…"

"_You give that here!_" With a wild grab, she recovered the satchel. "You hear me? You give…"

"Kind of looks like you already got it, ma'am." He grinned at her pleasantly. "Ain't that so? Now, how about letting me check it for you?"

"No!" She backed away from him. "I mean, I don't want it checked. I j-just…"

"Put it on the train for you, then. Mighty heavy bag for a little lady like you to carry."

"No! And you'd better get away from me, or I'll-I'll…"

"Well, yes, ma'am," he said coldly. "Yessiree, ma'am!"

Regaining some control of herself, she mumbled a grimacing word of apology. Very conscious that his eyes were following her, she hurried down the vaulted lobby. Her arm ached. She was panting, sweating from exertion. She had a feeling that everyone in the place was watching her, wondering about her.

At long last-after hours, miles, seemingly-she got out of the waiting room proper and into a wing of the building. She paused there gratefully, setting the bag against the wall and resting the toe of one shoe against it.

Her breath came back; she patted the sweat from her face, became cooler, calmer. In a half-resentful way she felt ashamed of herself. There had been no reason for her panic. The bag looked like any other bag. If the police had been alerted, there wasn't a chance in ten thousand they'd be able to spot her. All she had to do was follow Doc's instructions: stay in the crowd, keep the bag with her at all times, carry it onto the train herself. It was simple enough. It was what she knew she should do, without being told by Doc. But…

No buts. It was what she had to do. Checkroom attendants were always losing things. Handing them out to the wrong people, banging bags around until they flew open. There were similar risks in dealing with redcaps, baggage porters. Nothing ever happened, naturally, to a two-dollar suitcase with a few bucks' worth of clothes in it. But let the bag contain something hot-money or jewelry or narcotics, or part of a dismembered corpse-and sure as shootin' there was a foul-up.