He went out and, with a friendly nod to Lucy, O’Donnell followed him. Alone, Lucy paused a moment, then picked up the telephone again. When the operator answered, “I want a long-distance call, please,” she said, reaching for the slip of paper. “It’s person-to-person—Salem, Oregon.”

Threading the corridor traffic with the skill of long practice, Kent O’Donnell headed briskly for his own office in the hospital. He too had a full schedule ahead. In less than half an hour he was due on the operating floor; later there was a meeting of the medical executive committee, and after that he had several patients to see downtown, a program which would take him well into the evening.

As he walked he found himself thinking once more of Lucy Grainger. Seeing her, being as close as they were a few moments ago, had set him wondering again about Lucy and himself. But now the old familiar doubts—the feeling that perhaps their interests had too much in common for any permanent relationship—came crowding back.

He wondered why he had thought so much about Lucy lately—or any woman for that matter. Perhaps it was because the early forties were traditionally a restive time for men. Then he smiled inwardly, recollecting that there had seldom been a period when occasional love affairs—of one kind or another—had not come naturally to him. Nowadays they were merely spaced more widely apart. Also, of necessity, he was obliged to be considerably more discreet than in his younger years.

From Lucy his thoughts switched to Denise Quantz. Since the invitation to call her, which she had given him the night they had met at Eustace Swayne’s house, O’Donnell had confirmed his attendance at a surgeons’ congress in New York. It occurred to him that the date was next week; if he were to meet Mrs. Quantz, he had better make the arrangements soon.

As he turned into his office the clock over his desk showed twenty minutes before his first operation was scheduled. He picked up the telephone, telling himself it was always a good idea to do things when you thought of them.

He heard the operator trace the number through New York Information, then there was a ringing tone and a click. A voice said, “This’s Mrs. Quantz’s apartment.”

“I have a long-distance call for Mrs. Denise Quantz,” the Burlington operator said.

“Mrs. Quantz’s not here now.”

“Do you know where she can be reached?” The telephone company’s ritual was in motion.

“Mrs. Quantz’s in Burlington, Pennsylvania. Do you wish the number there?”

“If you please.” It was the Burlington operator again.

“The number is Hunter 6-5735.”

“Thank you, New York.” There was a click, then the operator said, “Did you get that number, caller?”

“Yes, thank you,” O’Donnell said, and hung up.

With his other hand he had already reached for the Burlington phone directory. He thumbed through it until he came to “Swayne, Eustace R.” As he had expected, the number listed was the one he had just been given.

Lifting the phone, he dialed again.

A male voice said, “Mr. Eustace Swayne’s residence.”

“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Quantz.”

“One moment, please.”

There was a pause. Then, “This is Mrs. Quantz.”

Until this moment O’Donnell had forgotten how much her voice had attracted him before. It had a soft huskiness, seeming to lend grace to the simplest words.

“I wonder if you remember,” he said. “This is Kent O’Donnell.”

“Of course! Dr. O’Donnell, how nice to hear from you!”

He had a sudden vision of her beside the telephone, the soft dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Then he said, “I just called you in New York. They gave me the number here.”

“I flew down last night,” Denise Quantz said. “Father had a touch of bronchitis. I thought I’d stay with him for a day or two.”

He asked courteously, “It’s not too serious, I hope?”

“Not really.” She laughed. “My father has the constitution of a mule—as well as the obstinacy.”

He thought: I can believe that. Aloud he said, “I was going to ask you to have dinner with me in New York. I expect to be there next week.”

“You can still ask me.” The reply was prompt and definite. “I’ll be back by then.”

On impulse he said, “Possibly I could anticipate. Do you have a free evening in Burlington?”

After a moment’s pause she said, “Tonight would be the only time.”

O’Donnell calculated quickly. His office appointments would go on until seven. But if nothing else came up . . .

His thoughts were interrupted. “Oh, wait!” It was Denise Quantz again. “I’d forgotten. Dr. Pearson is having dinner with my father; I think I ought to stay.” She added, “Unless you’d care to join us?”

Mentally he chuckled. Joe Pearson might be surprised to find him there. Instinct, though, told him it was not a good idea. He said, “Thank you, but I think perhaps we’d better postpone it.”

“Oh dear.” Her voice sounded disappointed; then she brightened. “I could meet you after dinner if you like. Father and Dr. Pearson are sure to get into one of their chess games, and when they do that anyone else might just as well not be there.”

He found himself suddenly delighted. “That would be wonderful. What time will you be free?”

“About nine-thirty, I imagine.”

“Shall I call for you?”

“It would probably save time if we met downtown. You tell me where.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “The Regency Room?”

“All right; at half-past nine. Good-by now.”

As O’Donnell replaced the phone he had a pleasant sense of anticipation. Then he glanced at the clock again. He would have to hurry if he were to be in the O.R. on time.

The after-dinner chess game between Eustace Swayne and Dr. Joseph Pearson had been in progress for forty minutes. The two old men faced each other across a low rosewood games table in the same paneled library where, three weeks earlier, O’Donnell and Swayne had had their verbal joust. Only two lights were burning in the room—one from a single pendant shade immediately above the table, the other a dimly glowing rococo lamp by the hallway door.

Both men’s faces were in shadow, the light between them playing directly on the inlaid chessboard in the table’s center. Only when one or the other leaned forward to make a move in the game were their features defined momentarily by the lamplight’s outer edges.

At this moment both were still, the room’s deep silence hovering like a padded mantle over the pair of Louis XV beechwood wing chairs in which they sat. Eustace Swayne had leaned back. Holding a brandy glass of ruby crystal lightly between his fingers, he surveyed the game as it had progressed so far.

The previous move had been Dr. Joseph Pearson’s. A minute or two ago, gently cradling the white queen from the exquisitely carved Indian-ivory chess set, he had moved the piece a single square ahead.

Now, putting down the brandy glass, Eustace Swayne selected a pawn from his far right wing and transferred it two squares forward. Then gruffly, breaking the silence, he said, “There have been changes at the hospital, I hear.”

Beyond the lamplight, Joe Pearson studied the chessboard. When he was ready he leaned forward and moved a pawn on his left wing one square forward, countering the other’s advance. Only then did he grunt the one word, “Some.”

Again the silence, peace, the sense of time halted. Then the old tycoon stirred in his chair. “Do you approve these changes?” He reached forward and slid his bishop diagonally two squares to the right. Half humorously he glanced across the table in the semi-darkness. His expression said: Beat that line-up if you can.

This time Joe Pearson answered before he made his move. “Not entirely.” He remained in shadow, studying the other’s gambit, pondering the alternatives ahead. Then, slowly, still handling the pieces tenderly, he moved his rook one square to the left, dominating an open line.