McLeod turned to the Internal Affairs page of the _Star-Times_. With the newspaper profession supplanting Hollywood fifty-odd years ago as the world's most glamorous, articles on internal affairs had evolved from small islands of type in a sea of advertisements to a place of importance with their own daily page and special editor. "Three column head," Crippens said proudly. "Liberal quotes from the King himself. Maestro Overman." "That's what I mean," Tracy repeated. "Crazy. Only yesterday, he was chewing you out." The article said that a new star was on the _Star-Times_ horizon, and went on to discuss all the successful assignments Crippens had handled. There was no mention of his wrongos which, McLeod knew, were considerable. A two-column cut of Crippens at his thinkwriter was included and the caption rendered a thumb-nail biography. The article concluded by mentioning a raise in salary which gave Crippens more than Tracy and almost what McLeod earned. "That's great," McLeod said, finding it difficult to maintain his enthusiasm. Damn Overman, he didn't miss a trick. Fattening the calf for slaughter. "Now the girl's got to marry me," Crippens declared. "I earn more money than she does." He was flip, building effusively in the best newspaperman fashion. He was not the serious, intent Crippens McLeod had always known, although, on closer examination, McLeod realized that the owlish eyes looked quite sober. "Quit your kidding," McLeod told him. "Harry Crippens would probably celebrate by discussing his next assignment, or making a study of the moral factors involved. What's the matter?" "Not a thing," Crippens assured him easily. "Here, have a drink. It's your whisky." "In the morning?" asked Tracy. "This is a celebration, girl. There you go." And Crippens sloshed liquor into three glasses. His hands were shaking. "I said what's the matter?" McLeod ignored the drink. Crippens didn't. "Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing." "Go ahead and talk to him," Tracy said. "Don't mind her, Darius. Have another?" Crippens poured for himself. "Darn it, Cripp. Even if it means making me feel better?" "Darius wouldn't do a thing like that, that's all." "Like what?" McLeod wanted to know. "I have to hand it to you," Tracy told him. "I thought you'd do your best to change the subject." "Like nothing," Crippens said. "I mean it, don't mind her. She had some silly idea.... I don't even want to talk about it." "Darius," Tracy asked abruptly, "what have you decided to do about Weaver Wainwright?" "Please," said Crippens. "I haven't made up my mind yet. I'm not going to let him kill me if I can help it." "Do tell. Does Cripp fit into the picture at all?" McLeod hoped he could substitute evasion for outright lying. "Why don't you ask Overman?" "Because I'm asking you."