When he left the theatre, Tom visiphoned the office to tell Livia that he was taking the rest of the day off. But he found that Livia herself was spending the day in her two-room apartment downtown. He hung up, and decided that he had to talk to her about Stinson's visit. He hopped a cab, and gave him Livia's address. John Andrusco answered the door. "Well! Thought you were at the office, Tom?" He found himself glaring at the lean-jawed executive. What was Andrusco doing here? "I've been over at the theatre," Tom explained. "Watching that musical we're spending all that dough on." He stepped inside. "I might say the same about you, Mr. Andrusco." "Me? Oh, I just came to talk over some business with Livia. Poor kid's not feeling so hot, you know." "No, I didn't." He dropped his hat familiarly on the contour couch, with almost too much deliberation. "Livia in bed?" "No." The girl appeared at the door of the bedroom, wrapping a powder-blue negligee around her. "What brings you here, Tom?" "I--I wanted to talk something over with you. Now that you're here, Mr. Andrusco, we can _all_ talk it over." "What's that?" Andrusco made himself at home at the bar. "It's about Walt Spencer. I had a visitor last night, the police commissioner. He showed me a letter that Spencer had written just before he--before he died. It was addressed to me, only Spencer had never mailed it." Andrusco looked sharply at the girl. "And what was in this letter?" "He was upset," Tom said. "He wanted to back out of the deal we made. Said the picture was a phoney. But the thing that's bothering the police is the _tone_ of the damned letter. It just doesn't sound like a man about to kill himself and his wife--" "Is that all?" Livia took the drink from Andrusco's hand and sipped at it. "I thought it was something serious." "It is serious!" Tom looked sternly at her. "I want to know something, Mr. Andrusco. You told me that picture was genuine. Now I want you to tell me again." The man smiled, with perfect teeth. "How do you mean, genuine? Is it a picture of a genuine infant with scales?" "Yes." "I assure you. In that respect, the picture is absolutely genuine." Tom thought it over. "Wait a while. Was the story genuine, too?" John Andrusco smiled. He sat on the sofa, and rubbed the palms of his hands over his knees. Then he looked towards Livia Cord and said: "Well--I didn't think we could hold out on our clever Mr. Blacker as long as we have. So we might as well enlist his cooperation fully. Eh, Livia?" "I think so." The girl smiled, her teeth sharp. "What does that mean?" Tom said. "The infant," John Andrusco answered slowly, "was not Walter Spencer's child. That, I'm afraid, was nothing more than a little white lie." Tom looked confused. "Then what was it?" Livia finished her drink. "It was my child." * * * * *