She tripped and almost fell. She caught herself, half-turned in pain and anger on Doc. And then she saw him, the thief.

He was at a row of lockers near the train gates; no more than twenty feet away from the uniformed station attendant who stood at Gate Three-their gate-consulting his watch. Smiling engagingly, he was opening the locker for a well-dressed elderly woman, placing two expensive cowhide bags inside.

He slammed the door, tested it. He handed her a key and picked up the money satchel. Tipping his hat, he turned away. And suddenly he saw Carol.

His expression never changed. He took a step straight toward her, smiling, apparently on the point ofcallinga hello. And then, with a movement that was at once abrupt and casual, he disappeared behind the lockers.

"Doc-" Carol gestured feebly.

But Doc had already spotted the satchel, identified the thief for what he was. He strode past her, and after a moment's indecision, she followed him.

By the time she had gotten behind the lockers, neither Doc nor the thief was in sight. They had disappeared as quickly and completely as though the floor had opened and swallowed them up. She turned, started to retrace her steps-and if she had, she would have seen the thief hasten through the train gate, with Doc following in brisk pursuit. Instead, however, she continued along the row of lockers, turned into the aisle formed by another row, and thence on to the end of that before coming out into the open again. By which time, of course, Doc and the thief were long since gone from view.

She stood there in the corridor, looking this way and that, seeming to shrink, to grow smaller and smaller in its lofty vastness. She had never felt so bewildered,so lost, so alone. Doc-where had he gone? How could she find him? What would happen if she couldn't?

Reason told her that he must have followed the thief onto the train. But-and here reason questioned its own statement-would a smart thief choose the train as an escape route? And would Doc have followed without a word or sign to her?

He'd have been in a hurry, of course. He would doubtless assume that she was heeling him, even as he was heeling the thief. But-suppose she was wrong. Suppose the pursuit had led back up into the station.

She wouldn't know that he wasn't on the train until she had looked, and by that time…

She shivered at the thought. Herself on the train, and Doc here-the two of them separated in a hostile and watchful world. He wouldn't dare to make inquiries, to look for her; even to wait around the station for her return. For that matter, he could not be sure that she hadn't taken a powder on him. After last night, that drunken hateful talk of Beynon's…

Maybe Doc had run out on her! Maybe he'd recovered the money and abandoned her! He was sore, she thought; more accurately, suspicious. She needed him, but he did not need her. And when Doc no longer needed a person…

The trainman looked at her sharply. Then, with a final glance at his watch, he slipped it into his pocket and started through the gate.

"Mister!" Carol hurried toward him."Did a couple of men go through here just now? A rather tall older man, and a man with a…"

"A couple of men?" The trainman was irritably amused. "Lady, there's probably been a hundred. I can't…"

"But this was just in the last minute or so! The one in front would have had grey hair and a little mustache!"

"Were they catching the train for California?"

"I–I don't know. I mean, I think they were but…"

"Well, if they were, they went through here. If they weren't, they didn't." He fidgeted impatiently with the gate. "What about you? You taking the train?"

"I don't know!" Carol almost wailed. "I mean, I'm not sure whether I should or not. Can't you remember…?"

"No, I can't," he cut her off shortly. "Kind of seems like they did, but I wouldn't say for sure."

"But it's so important! If you'd just…"

"Lady-" his voice rose. "I told you I wasn't sure whether I saw 'em or not, and that's all I can tell you, and if you're taking the train you'll have to do it right now. It's already two minutes late pulling out."

"But…"

"Make up your mind, lady. What's it going to be?"

Carol looked at him helplessly. "I guess," she said. "I guess I really should-shouldn't…"

"Yes?" he snapped. "Well?"

Scowling, he waited a second or two more. Then, as she remained undecided, he slammed the gate and went down the ramp.

The barn was pleasantly cool-clean and sweetsmelling with the aroma of fresh straw and new hay. In one of the rear stalls a swaybacked horse nickered contentedly. From a partitioned-off kennel, also in the rear, came the happy yappings of a litter of puppies.

There were two box stalls at the front, small floored rooms open at the aisle end. Rudy Torrento was in one, propped up on a cot while the veterinarian worked over him. Opposite him, in the other, was the doctor's wife. The doc's name was Harold Clinton, so she, of course, was Mrs. Clinton. Fran, her husband called her, when he wasn't addressing her sweetishly as hon or pet or lambie. But Rudy didn't think of her by any of those handles.

He'd seen this babe before-her many counterparts, that is. He knew her kin, distant and near. All her mamas, sisters, aunts, cousins and what have you. And he knew the name was Lowdown with a capital L. He wasn't at all surprised to find her in a setup like this. Not after encountering her as a warden's sisterin-law, the assistant treasurer of a country bank, and a supervisor of paroles. This babe got around. She was the original square-plug-in-a-round-hole kid. But she never changed any. She had that good old Lowdown blood in her, and the right guy could bring it out.

Seated on a high stool with her bare, milk-white legs crossed and her chin cupped demurely in the palm of her hand, she watched moist-lipped as her husband completed his work. She wore an expensivelooking plaid skirt, somewhat in need of cleaning and pressing, and a tight white sweater of what appeared to be cashmere. Her shoes were scuffed, their spike heels slightly run over. But her corn-colored hair was impeccably coiffured, and her nails glistened with bright red polish.

She'd do, Rudy decided; yes, sir, Miss Lowdown would do just fine. But that red polish would have to go, even if her eensie-teensie pinkies went right along with it.

He caught her eye, and winked at her. She frowned primly, then lowered her lashes and smoothed the sweater a degree tighter. Rudy laughed out loud.

"Feeling better, eh?" The doctor straightened, beamed down at him professionally. "That's the glucose. Nothing like a good intravenous feeding of glucose to pull a man together fast."

"Ain't it the truth?" Rudy grinned. "Bet you didn't know that, did you, Mrs. Clinton?"

She murmered inaudibly, then tittered that she couldn't even spell glucose. Rudy told her that her husband was a plenty smart man. "Plenty," he repeated. "I've been tinkered over by high class M.D.s that didn't know half the medicine your old man does."

"Well, uh, thank you." Clinton's thin face flushed with pleasure. "I only wish that the people around here, uh, shared your high opinion."

"Yeah? You mean to say they don't?"

"Well…"

"They don't," his wife cut in curtly. "They think he's a dope."

Clinton blinked at her from behind his glasses. He was either unoffended, or resigned to such offenses: doubtless the last, Rudy decided. "Now, uh, Fran," he said mildly, "I don't believe I'd put it quite that way. It's just that they're rather set in their ways, and, uh, a young man like me-someone probably more interested in the theory of disease than actual practice- why…"

"So the sun don't rise and set here," Rudy said. "If the people aren't smart enough to appreciate you, why not go someplace where they are?"