She turned to him and her fingers clawed at his coat. "Bob, don't take me back to my place," she whispered. "Not tonight. Don't leave me alone." "Huh? But--" "I know, I know, you're afraid I'll trap you--you conceited baboon. For Christ's sake, let me sleep on your floor tonight, I won't touch a hair of your sanctimonious head, but don't leave me alone!" For the first time since he came to her, she began to cry. * * * * * The telephone woke him. He turned over, not wholly oriented. There was a woman sleeping beside him, wearing a pair of his pajamas. Where had he picked her up? Wait. Margery! She slept very much like a child, curled in a ball. The pale foggy morning light touched a line of dried tears on her cheek. Kintyre remembered how she had clung to him. Nothing else had happened; she might have been his terrified young--No! That was a thought he clamped off before it had formed. Let it be said only that he had been a friend to her last night, and no more. He was already padding into the kitchen, to pick up the phone before it woke her. "Hello," he said. "Dr. Kintyre? Moffat." "Oh--oh, yes, the officer. What is it?" "I wondered if you knew what's become of Miss Margery Towne. She isn't at home." The voice had a bland none-of-my-business-but-I-do-need-help overtone. Had he spotted her car outside the house? "I might be able to locate her, if it's urgent," said Kintyre cautiously; for it was in truth none of Moffat's business. "What's the trouble?" "Burglary." "What?" "A neighbor heard noises in her place last night. Stewed about it for several hours, got no answer to the doorbell, finally called us. Our man had to go up the fire escape and in a broken window. The thief's route. It's a mess in there." "The devil you say!" "The devil it might be, sir. There were valuables, jewelry and so on, lying in plain sight. They don't seem to've been touched. I suppose the burglar was looking for something else. Have you any idea what it might have been?" 3 Kintyre returned home about noon. Gerald Clayton caught him on the phone with an invitation to lunch. Kintyre accepted readily. He had his share of false pride, but not so much that he wouldn't let a millionaire pick up the tab for a good meal. The Fairhill Hotel sat in a swank area on the knees of the summer-brown hills walling the Eastbay. Kintyre parked his hand-me-down among mammaried Cadillacs and rump-sprung Plymouths and strolled into the lobby. Clayton rose from a chair. "Ah, there, Bob, how are you?" He shook hands and moved toward the elevator. "Thought I'd have lunch sent up. But if you'd like a drink beforehand--" "No, thanks. Maybe a bottle of beer with the meal. Uh, what's the occasion of all this?" "We've things to talk about. Not too urgent, I guess, but I'm going to be tied up over in the City." Clayton took Kintyre's arm. "Anyhow, I felt like having some company for lunch."