Guido leaned back against the wall. His eyelids drooped and he drew wholly different sounds from the strings. Talk died away. Not many here would know this song. Kintyre himself didn't recognize it before the singer had embarked on the haunting refrain. Then Guido looked his way, smiling a little, and he knew it was a gift to him. "_Quant' è bella giovinezza Che si fugge tuttavia! Di doman' non c' è certezza: Chi vuol esse lieto, sia!_" Lorenzo the Magnificent had written it, long ago in the days of pride. When he finished, Guido said, "_Entr'acte_," laid down his guitar, and came over to Kintyre's table. He stood with his left hand on his hip, fetching out a cigarette and lighting it with the right. "Thanks," said Kintyre. Guido continued the business with the cigarette, taking his time. Kintyre returned to his beer. "Well," said Guido finally. He grinned. "You're a cool one. I mean in every sense of the word. Let's find a booth." They sat down on opposite sides of the recessed table. A handsome young waitress lit the candle for them. "On me," said Guido. "Same, then," said Kintyre, emptying his glass. Guido squirmed. "How d'you like the place?" he asked. Kintyre shrugged. "It's a place." "This Parisian bistro deal is only on slack nights. Weekends, we got a combo in here." "I think I prefer the bistro." "I guess you would." They fell back into silence. Guido smoked raggedly. Kintyre felt no need for tobacco; the implacable sense of going somewhere overrode his self. After the girl had brought their round, Guido said in a harsh tone, looking away from him: "Well, what is it? I got to go on again soon." "I just came from the Michaelis'," said Kintyre. "What?" Guido jerked. "What'd you go there for?" "Let's say I was curious. Gene Michaelis was out of sight last weekend. He won't say where." "You don't--" Guido looked up. Something congealed in him. "I thought Corinna was just flipping," he said, very softly. "I don't accuse anyone," said Kintyre. "I'm only a civilian. However, the police are going to give him a rough time if he won't alibi himself." Guido lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last. "Where were you, Saturday afternoon through Monday morning?" Kintyre tossed the question off as lightly as he was able. "Out of town," said Guido. "With some friends." "You'd better get in touch with them, then, so they can give statements to that effect." "They--Christ almighty!" In the guttering flamelight, Kintyre saw how sweat began to film the faun countenance. "My personal opinion," he said, watching Guido's lips fight to stiffen themselves, "is that you are not involved. The fact remains, though, you'd better account for your weekend." "To you?" It was a wan little truculence. "I can't force you. But without trying to play detective, I am sticking my nose a ways into this affair. Knowing the people concerned, I might possibly turn up something the police can use.