There was a light chime from the front door. He extracted a letter from the mailbox, ripped it open. It was addressed with a soft pencil, and the graphite had smeared. But he knew the handwriting. The message was so jerky and uneven that he was some time reading it. It began and ended in the middle of a sentence. --and a length of gut, a bit of platinum or iridium, a piece of lodestone, a phonograph needle that has only played Scriabin's "Ninth Sonata." Then tie-- That was all. A continuation of the first message, with its bizarre formula. Had she really convinced herself that there was a guardian watching her, and that she could only communicate during the infrequent moments when its attention was elsewhere? He knew the answer. When you had an obsession you could convince yourself of anything. He looked at the postmark. He recognized the name of a town several miles east of Hempnell. He could not think of a soul they knew there, or anything else about the town. His first impulse was to get out the car and rush over. But what could he do when he got there? The phone was ringing. It was Evelyn Sawtelle. "Is that you, Norman? Please ask Tansy to come to the phone. I wish to speak to her." The question was rapped out with precision, as if its wording had been carefully planned. "I'm sorry, but she isn't in." Evelyn Sawtelle did not sound surprised at the answer--her second question came too quickly. "Where is she then? I must get in touch with her." He thought. "She's out in the country," he said, "visiting some friends of ours. Is there something I can tell her?" "No, I wish to speak to Tansy. What is your friend's number?" "They don't have a phone!" he said angrily. "No? Well, it's nothing of importance." She sounded oddly pleased, as if his anger had given her satisfaction. "I'll call again. I must hurry now. Hervey is so busy with his new responsibilities. Good-by." He replaced the phone. Now, why the devil--Suddenly an explanation occurred to him. Perhaps Tansy had been seen leaving town, and Evelyn Sawtelle had scented the possibility of some sort of scandal and had wanted to check. Perhaps Tansy had been carrying a suitcase. He looked in Tansy's dressing room. The small suitcase was gone. Drawers were open. It looked as if she had packed in a hurry. But what about money? He examined his billfold. It was empty. Forty-odd dollars missing. You could go a long way on forty dollars. The jerky illegibility of the message made it look as if it had been written on a train or bus. The next few hours were highly unpleasant. He checked schedules, and found that several busses and trains passed through the town from which Tansy's letter had been sent. He drove to the stations and made guarded inquiries, with no success.