Paul laughed. “Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it? No, I guess I don’t look at him very much. I’m glad you mentioned that because I’ve a hunch he’s a hypnotist of some kind though there’s no record of his ever having studied it. I think I’ll get a psychologist to take a look at him.” “Do you think he’ll like that?” “Oh, he’ll never know unless he’s a mind reader. Somebody to sort of observe him at work. I’ve already had him checked out physically.” “You’re very thorough.” “Have to be. He’s got a duodenal ulcer and there’s a danger of high blood pressure when he’s older; otherwise he’s in fine shape.” “What do you want me to do first?” He became serious. “A pamphlet. You might make a highbrow magazine article out of it for the _Readers’ Digest_ or something first. We’ll want a clear, simple statement of the Cavite philosophy.” “Why don’t you get him to write it?” “I’ve tried. He says he can’t write anything. In fact he even hates to have his sermons taken down by a recorder. God knows why. But, in a way, it’s all to the good because it means we can get all the talent we like to do the writing for us and that way, sooner or later, we can appeal to just about everybody.” “Whom am I supposed to appeal to in this first pamphlet?” “The ordinary person, but make it as foolproof as you can; leave plenty of doors open so you can get out fast in case we switch the party line along the way.” I laughed. “You’re extraordinarily cynical.” “Just practical. I had to learn everything the hard way. I was kicked around by some mighty expert kickers in my day.” I checked his flow of reminiscence. “Tell me about Cave and Iris.” This was the secondary mystery which had occupied my mind for several days. But Paul did not know or, if he did, would not say. “I think they’re just good friends, like we say in these parts. Except that I doubt if anything is going on ... they don’t seem the type and she’s so completely gone on what he has to say....” A long-legged girl secretary in discreet black entered the room unbidden and whispered something to the publicist Paul started as though she had given him an electric shock from the thick carpeting. He spoke quickly: “Get Furlow. Tell him to stand bail. Also get a writ. I’ll be right down there.” She ran from the room. He pushed the bar away from him and it rolled aimlessly across the floor, its bottles and glasses chattering. Paul looked at me distractedly. “He’s in jail. Cave’s in jail.” FIVE 1