"I didn't say anything about cirrhosis. Did Jean down a stiff drink-six or eight ounces of straight whisky, say- a few minutes before she died? The autopsy says she did."

I said, "Sure, but-"

"It killed her," he said. "Don't look so surprised. It happens all the time, young people showing off how much they can drink right out of the bottle, and falling over dead. That much alcohol in one dose can be pure poison under certain circumstances. The heart just stops."

"I see," I said slowly. "I see."

"According to your own report, you made several mistakes during the past few days. But that is one you did not make. Your hand did not slip. Under the circumstances, do you wish to reconsider the resignation you haven't turned in yet?"

I hesitated. I'd come in with my mind made up, I thought; and there was really no reason why this should change things in any way, but somehow it did.

Mac's voice came to me gently, "Perhaps you'd like to take the month that is coming to you and think it over. On medical recommendations, I could make that a little longer."

"A month should do it," I said.

As I said it, I tried to remember what I'd been going to do with a month's leave. I'd had something in mind, a long time ago. Well, it would come back to me as soon as I got some sleep. If it didn't, it couldn't be very important.

"Oh, Eric," he said, as I rose and turned towards the door. I looked back. "Try the Presidential Hotel, Room 212. The lady didn't leave her name, but she had our number, so she must have worked for us once. The girl who took the call said the accent was from Texas."

I stood there for a moment. Then I said, "Thank you, sir," and moved quickly towards the door.

"Eric."

"Yes, sir?"

"I still don't approve," he said, but he didn't say it very severely.