But it was not Randolph. It was his secretary.

“Good morning,” Briggs said politely.

Michael stared back at him, deflated and uncertain. He was not sure of Briggs’s role. Involved he must be, but perhaps only as one of Gordon’s blinded disciples. If that was the case…Michael’s stomach contracted as he remembered what lay on the bed in the next room. Linda wouldn’t be the only one to be locked up if Briggs happened to see that pretty picture.

“Good morning,” he answered, wondering how his voice could sound so normal. “Looking for something?”

Briggs blinked; a sly, appreciative smile moved his mouth. The expression was so ugly that Michael fell back a step. Briggs took advantage of his movement to enter.

The man was dressed in an imitation of Gordon’s impeccable taste. The suit had been well fitted; but not even Savile Row could have done much with Briggs’s figure. The expensive leather belt had slid down below the equator of his round belly, and the Italian silk tie curved out to follow the hump. In his hand Briggs held a hat. He put it down on a table and glanced around the room.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

There was no sound from the bedroom. Michael wondered whether Linda had recognized Briggs’s voice and found him too much even for her new resolution. He couldn’t risk it, though. He had to get the man out of here.

“I don’t like to seem inhospitable,” he said, “but I’m just about to go out.”

It was such a glaring lie, considering the hour and the state of Michael’s apparel, that Briggs didn’t bother to comment. But another of those faint, unpleasant smiles touched his pale mouth.

“Oh, I shan’t stay. I just came by at Mr. Randolph’s request. You haven’t seen anything of Mrs. Randolph, I suppose?”

A series of soft thuds came from behind the closed door. Michael glanced at it.

“That damned cat,” he said.

“Your cat? How nice that you have a pet.”

“If you don’t mind…” Michael felt he couldn’t control himself much longer. In about thirty seconds he was going to grab Briggs by the collar of his pretty suit and heave him out the door.

“Yes…You see, there was a sad occurrence last night. You remember our local witch, I’m sure. Apparently she got carried away by one of her experiments and set her house on fire.”

“Really?” His tone didn’t even convince Michael himself, but suddenly he no longer cared. Briggs knew. He knew all about everything.

“Yes,” Briggs cooed. “Very sad. Burned to a crisp, the poor old lady was. Well, naturally Mr. Randolph thought Linda might have been involved.”

“Linda,” Michael repeated.

“I think of her that way,” Briggs said, with an indescribable smirk. “I wish we could find her, helpher… She’s a beautiful young lady. A shameto have all that go to waste in some asylum.”

Two things kept Michael from planting his fist right in the center of Briggs’s leer. One was the thought that it would be like hitting a fat woman. The other was the knowledge that Briggs was trying to anger him into an indiscreet act.

“How is Mr. Randolph?” he asked.

“Not well.” Briggs shook his head sadly. “He’s very upset, naturally. Knowing Linda’s sad history as he does, he wondered about what happened to Andrea. Luckily the evidence was destroyed. The body, I mean.”

“I’m late now,” Michael said.

“How thoughtless of me to keep you, then.” Briggs turned toward the door. Then he made a sudden dart to the side, his pudgy hand shooting out.

“Here it is,” he exclaimed guilelessly, holding up a small black notebook. “Mr. Randolph thought he might have misplaced it here.”

Michael looked at it.

“ Randolph ’s? But it must have been here for days. I never saw it.”

“Somehow it seems to have worked its way under a heap of magazines,” Briggs said blandly. “You busy writers aren’t the neatest housekeepers in the world, are you? He’ll be glad to have this back. And to think this was the reason why he asked me to stop by. I declare I’d have forgotten to ask if I hadn’t seen it, peeping out. Well, then…”

“Wait a minute,” Michael said. An insane suspicion had entered his mind. “Let me see that.”

Briggs surrendered the notebook without comment. Only his raised eyebrows indicated courteous surprise.

Michael flipped through the pages of the notebook. It was an ordinary little loose-leaf pad, except that its cover was of tooled leather instead of plastic. It was certainly not Michael’s property, and the handwriting on the pages resembled what he remembered of Gordon’s script. The entries were cryptic and abbreviated; they might have been written in the sort of personal shorthand a busy man had developed in order to jot down appointments and reminders. A few of the signs reminded Michael of chemical or mathematical symbols.

With some reluctance he returned the notebook to Briggs. He had an odd feeling that if he could study those entries at leisure, he might learn something important. But he couldn’t refuse to let the man have it, and the need to get Briggs out was stronger than any possible gain from the book.

“Well, I must be running along,” Briggs said affably. “I hope you’ll excuse the intrusion, at this hour. I have a busy day ahead of me. Oh, and by the way…”

Already in the doorway, he turned.

“If Linda should turn up, do be kind to the poor girl.”

“Naturally.”

“But don’t forget…”

“Forget what?” Michael snapped.

“She might be dangerous,” Briggs said softly. “Be careful.”

He went out, and just in time; the itching in Michael’s fingers was almost intolerable. He slammed the door and leaned against it, twisting his hands together. When he was able to speak without stammering, he went back to the bedroom.

She lay quiet, staring at him over the gag, her eyes liquid and enormous. Michael took the gag off and untied the cords that held her down. Neither spoke. He sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing he dared not touch her, and watched the tears slide down her cheeks and soak into the pillow on either side of her face.

II

Michael put down the telephone.

“They expect him tonight or early tomorrow,” he said. Sun streamed in the window. It was mid-morning, and a beautiful spring day. Outside. The room had another atmosphere. They had both fought their way back to some kind of calm, but the air was cold with tension.

“Tonight,” Linda repeated thoughtfully.

“Or tomorrow. He never knows till the last minute what plane he’ll be catching. Usually he wires to let them know, but not always; he drives himself, so he doesn’t have to be met.”

Michael knew he must sound like a host trying to entertain an unwanted guest. He couldn’t help it; something had happened to his brain. Up to this point he had been able to consider and discuss everything that had happened; he had even been able to apply logic to a concept that was considered to be beyond logic. But last night…His mind balked at that, he couldn’t even think about it, much less discuss it. He was behaving as if it hadn’t happened. Which was not only stupid; it was potentially dangerous.

He looked at Linda. Sitting upright on the bed, she sipped her coffee. Her hands were free, but her ankles were still bound; at her insistence, he had again fastened them to the footboard of the bed. He had felt sick while doing it, and he felt sick every time he looked. But it was a small price to pay for the composure of her face. She had fought this latest catastrophe, and come through it, as she had come through all the others; but he thought that she must be like someone clinging to a single strand of rope, over an abyss, slipping inexorably down each time her grasp on reality failed. The frantic hands might tighten, temporarily stopping the descent, or even claw their way back up the rope, a few precious inches toward safety. But inevitably the grasp would weaken again, and each time the fall would be arrested a little farther down, toward the end of the rope and the final plunge.