She rummaged idly in her pockets, pulling out some change and a shopping list. The list was from the week before and she started to drop it in the wastebasket, when she noticed something on the other side. A phone number—Watkins 9-1313. And the initials B. B. Laura crumpled it in her hand, seized with an uncontrollably pleasant shudder. Then she threw it indignantly into the wastebasket, wondering when Beebo had scribbled it out. And then she leaned over slowly and took it out of the wastebasket and shoved it furtively back into her pocket, without looking at it. She sat down abruptly in her chair and put her head down on her arms and wept. “Father ...” she whispered. “Why did we have to hate each other? We’re all we have ... Father ...” She got up fifteen minutes later, turned out the lights, and stole out, quiet as a thief. * * * * * She walked over to the McAlton Hotel. She had no idea what she expected to find or to do. But she went into the big softly carpeted lobby and walked, almost as if she were sleep walking, toward the desk. It was crowded and noisy, with that ineffable air of excitement that big hotels seem to generate. Laura felt gooseflesh start up all over her. Many of these people must be conventioneers. If Merrill Landon didn’t see her one of his Chicago friends might, and the secret would be out. He would run her down if it took the whole New York City police force. She leaned apprehensively on the marble topped counter of the desk, waiting until a clerk could serve her. He came up after a couple of minutes, looking enormously efficient and busy. “May I help you, Miss?” he demanded. “Is a Mr. Merrill Landon staying here?” she asked. “Just a minute, please.” He disappeared briefly and Laura looked around the lobby, her hand partially covering her face. _He might see me. I must be out of my mind to come here._ But she waited none-the-less. “He’s in 1402,” the clerk said loudly in her ear. Laura jumped. “Shall I call him?” asked the clerk. “Yes, please.” She had no idea why she was doing this. She felt as if she were two people, one acting, the other watching; one compelled to act, the other shocked by the action. “Who wants to see him, please?” “His daughter.” She almost whispered it, and he made her repeat it. Then he buzzed off. She watched him, perhaps ten feet from her but impossible to hear, as he lifted the receiver, gave the number, waited. Then his face lighted into a business-type smile, and she saw his lips form the words, “Mr. Landon?” He went on, and she watched him, feeling almost sick with anticipation. The clerk came back after a brief conversation. “Well, Miss—” he began, eyeing her closely. “What did he say?” Laura looked at him with her stark blue eyes. Her chin trembled. “He says he has no daughter, Miss,” the clerk drawled. He grinned. “Tough luck. Want to try someone else?”