_"I'll cut your heart out, if you don't fade outa here," Kitty gritted back at him. "Scat!"_ Fleetwood scatted. But not in a mood of docile acquiescence. Fate had handled him quite nastily during the last several minutes and, therefore, deserved to be dealt with in kind. He addressed himself to Fate, using the surname. "Dermitt," he said between clenched teeth, "now you've gone too far. Far, far too far. I told you to leave Kitty out of this. If you have trouble now you've only got yourself to blame. Remember that." * * * * * He retraced his steps through the hallway and back into the living room, where he seated himself solidly on the divan. Favoring Evelyn, who was still in evidence, with the most perfunctory of glances, he folded his arms adamantly across his chest and crossed his legs. "I refuse to make another move," he announced haughtily, "until both Kitty and I are released from this preposterous narrative. And you may take that as an ultimatum. I don't care if we're all left dangling by our participles until we rot like grapes on a vine." And with that he settled into an attitude of stolid resistance, breaking the silence only once more for a terse sign-off. "Besides," he added, "your writing smells like a large dead fish." Stillness overlayed the room like a dense and redolent mist. Evelyn, still vividly defined, remained fixed in position like a figure in a waxworks tableau. A moment passed. Then it happened. The room jolted, with the swift shock of a train compartment yanked forward by a sudden start from the engine. But that was all, just a jolt with an immediate settling. Evelyn moved slightly, but Fleetwood contained his surprise in a slight lift of the eyebrows. He knew without question that this somehow heralded a counter action from Dermitt, but he couldn't guess what it might be. He tensed himself determinedly against whatever might follow. It followed swiftly enough. _Evelyn swung about, drawing her hand to her mouth._ _"Mario!" she cried._ _Mario, his mouth drawn down in a grim line, stood in the doorway, gun in hand._ So that was Dermitt's maneuver, Fleetwood reflected complacently; he meant to push the action forward by sheer force of will. "It won't do any good, Dermitt," he said. "I won't budge." He glanced around, pleased to note that both the gun and Mario's murderous gaze were directed toward the place which he had deserted when he'd left the room to follow Kitty. _"Move, Cassidy," Mario grunted. "Get goin' before you turn out to be a mess on the lady's rug."_ "Hah!" Fleetwood snorted unconcernedly. "Go on and shoot a hole in the wall, you big imaginary fathead. See if I care." * * * * *