"But you must have some idea. Suppose you go over there to your desk and write it out right now--just as an experiment?" "Huh? What are you up to?" "Just try it and see what happens. I'd rather like to know myself as a matter of fact." Keeping his eyes on Fleetwood, Dermitt got up slowly and crossed to the desk in the alcove. "You're mad," he said uncertainly. "You're out of your mind." "No," Fleetwood said with a wry smile. "I'm out of _your_ mind. Besides, you dwell too much on insanity. That's morbid in a fellow your age." Dermitt said something under his breath, but Fleetwood didn't hear it. "Now just sit down and write the next line as it comes to you. And watch me, too, while you do it. I think we may both learn something interesting." * * * * * Dermitt sighed deeply and seated himself before the typewriter. "Oh, well," he sighed, "what have I got to lose now?" His face however held the expression of a man who was on the verge of losing everything; he was whistling in the dark. He turned to the typewriter and pressed a trembling hand to his left temple. "Just one line, though," Fleetwood cautioned him. "No more than that." "The way I'm feeling," Dermitt muttered, "I'll be lucky to do that much." He lowered his uncertain fingers to the keys and began to type: _Through the cushiony darkness that engulfed him, a voice called out to Fleetwood with metallic shrillness_ ... (At the very first tap of the keys, Fleetwood felt himself falling into black unconsciousness. He smiled with satisfaction and let it happen.) ... _like a silver cord plucked by a skeletal hand._ Fleetwood awoke slowly as the keys stopped tapping and the room grew still. He was still seated in the chair. He stretched himself and glanced across at Dermitt, whose eyes were now even larger than his glasses. The little man, lost in sputtering inarticulation, merely pointed at Fleetwood. "You ... you ... you!" he managed finally. "You _faded_! Right in front of my eyes, you vanished!" He quivered emotionally. "Oh, my God!" He boosted himself unsteadily away from the desk and out of the chair. He came tottering across the room toward Fleetwood. "Wha ... what happened?" Fleetwood shrugged. "It's perfectly plain, isn't it? You transferred me to paper." "Then you _are_!" Fleetwood spread his hands significantly. * * * * * Dermitt moved back to the chair and executed another collapse. It is not likely that the stock crash of '29 could have produced a more vivid picture of the Ruined Man. His arms hung slack at his sides. "No wonder the story's been going so badly lately," he groaned. "No wonder you haven't been consistent in print." He looked up slowly. "What are you going to do?" "Nothing special," Fleetwood said. "Live a little, I suppose. I haven't made any definite plans yet. Maybe I'll just do something quiet, like raising flowers." "You mean--like you said--you're just walking out on me?"