"Awrr!" said Fleetwood. "Uphh!" And for the moment that comprised his entire comment on the discovery. Time lost all meaning to Fleetwood. For all he knew whole hours might have slipped by as he sat there staring down at the illustration. There was one thing, though, about which he was positive; he had never posed for the portrait in the magazine. But then how could they have gotten such an exact likeness? And there was his name too. Something more than weird coincidence was involved here, he was certain of it. He started violently as the voice sounded in his ear. "More coffee?" The girl Kitty was standing before him again, the _Silex_ poised expertly over his cup. Fleetwood stared up at her with haunted eyes. His mouth worked loosely for several moments before he produced intelligible sound. "L--look!" he said, twisting the magazine around in her direction. "Look at that!" Kitty put down the _Silex_ and studied the picture with grave interest. "Seems familiar," she murmured. Then she made a quick clucking noise of recognition. "Of course! That's Fleetwood Cassidy, the fellow in the story. But just for a moment it looked like somebody else I've seen around...." She looked up at Fleetwood. "It's you, isn't it? You pose for Fleetwood Cassidy!" "No," Fleetwood said despairingly. "That's just the trouble. I don't pose for Fleetwood Cassidy. I've never heard of Fleetwood Cassidy. I mean I _am_ Fleetwood Cassidy. Anyway...." * * * * * But Kitty's attention had already gone back to the illustration. "I always thought this fellow, Grant Dermitt, just made you up out of his head. You a good friend of his?" "Grant Dermitt?" Fleetwood asked. "Who's he?" "The guy who writes about you," Kitty said. "Oh, you know; you're kidding me." She smiled down at the illustration, unaware that just beyond her nose its flesh-and-blood counterpart had become distorted with a look of slack-mouthed stupefaction. "Just listen here to what it says about you." She began to read from the page opposite the illustration: _Fleetwood shoved Caroline away from him, and she plumped down on the sofa like a mail bag heaved off a passing train, soft and sullen._ _"Save it for the next sucker," he drawled. "When I'm ready to go shopping for coffins I'll let you know. But I'm not ready, not just yet."_ _Her face became a white mask of anger. "I'll kill you, Cassidy!" she shrilled. "You can't push me around and not bleed for it sooner or later. I'll kill you, damn you!"_ _"You'll try," Fleetwood nodded with a wry smile. "But take a tip, sugar, when you come gunning for me don't wear that negligee. It doesn't give you any place to hide the weapon. In fact it doesn't give you any place to hide anything."_ _When he sauntered out the door she was still staring at him, her face twisted and mottled in the firelight like an artist's paint rag._ "Gosh!" Kitty said, looking up from the magazine. "Gee!"