Time enough to decide that afternoon what he was going to do. He escaped after lunch to what was becoming his refuge on a park bench. There he read the letter for the fourth time. For a long while he sat ruminating. About three o'clock he walked to the General Post Office--walking had become a habit hard to break--and hunted up the man who now had his old route, a youngster not more than 30 named Flanagan. From the letter Sam extracted the return envelope. "You been delivering any like this?" he asked. Flanagan peered at it. "Yeah," he said. "Plenty." He looked worried. "Gee, Wilson, I'm glad you came in. There's something funny about those deliveries, and I don't want to get in Dutch." "Funny how?" "My very first day on the route, I started up to the seventh floor of that building to deliver them--and there wasn't any seventh floor. So I asked the old elevator man--" "Howie Mallory. I know him. He's been there for years." "I guess so. Anyway, he said it was O. K. just to give them to him. He showed me a paper, signed with the name of this outfit, by the secretary or something--" "Orville K. Hesterson," Sam said. "That was it--saying that all mail for them was to be delivered to the elevator operator until further notice. So I've been giving it to him ever since--there's a big bunch every day. Is something wrong, Sam? Have I pulled a boner? Am I going to be in trouble?" "No trouble. I'm just checking--little job they asked me to do for them, seeing I'm retired." Sam was surprised at the glibness with which that fib came out. Flanagan looked still more worried. "He said their office was being remodeled or something, so he was looking after their mail till they could move in." "Sure. Don't give it another thought." Another idea occurred to him; he lowered his voice. "I oughtn't to tell you this, Flanagan, but every new man on a route, they kind of check up on him the first few weeks, see if he's handling everything O.K. I'll tell them you're doing fine." "Hey, thanks. Thanks a lot." "Don't say anything about this. It's supposed to be secret." "Oh, I won't." Sam Wilson waved and walked out. He sat on the steps a while to think. Was old Howie Mallory pulling a fast one? Was _he_ Orville K. Hesterson? Had he cooked up a scheme to make himself some crooked money? * * * * * Three things against that. First, those nixies the first day: why wouldn't Mallory have told him the same thing he told Flanagan? Sam would have believed him, if he had said they were building an office on the roof and giving it a number. Second, Howie just wasn't smart enough. Of course he could be fronting for the real crook. But Sam had known him for years, and old Howie had always seemed downright stupidly honest. A man doesn't suddenly turn into a criminal after a lifetime of probity.