Malone thought about the hypothetical student for a minute. Then something in the riffling pages caught his eye. There were two names on the page he'd stopped at. The first was: _Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD._ It was followed by two little squiggles. The second was: _Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI._ There were no squiggles after his own name, and Malone felt oddly thankful for that, without knowing exactly why. But what did the names mean? And who had-- "Uh ... Mr. Malone--" Bill said tentatively. "That _is_ your notebook, isn't it?" "Oh," Malone said. He looked up at the cop and put on his most ingratiating smile. "Sure," he said. "It's mine. Sure it is. Just checking to see if I'd lost any pages. Not good. Losing pages out of a notebook. Never. Have to check, you know. Procedure. Very secret." "Sure," Bill said uncertainly. Malone took a deep breath. "Thought I'd lost the notebook," he said. "I appreciate your returning it." "Oh," Bill said, "that's O.K., Mr. Malone. Glad to do it." "You don't know what this means to me," Malone said truthfully. "No trouble at all," Bill said. "Any time." He gave Malone a big smile and turned back to the door. "But I got to get back to my beat," he said. "Listen, I'll see you. And if I can be any help--" "Sure," Malone said. "I'll let you know. And thanks again." "Welcome," Bill said, and opened the door. He strode out with the air of a man who has just been decorated with the Silver Star, the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. Malone tried a few more steps and discovered that he could walk without falling down. He thanked the doctor again. "Perfectly all right," the doctor said. "Nothing to it. Why, you ought to see some of the cases we get here. There was a guy here the other night with both his legs all mashed up by a--" "I'll bet," Malone said hurriedly. "Well, I've got to be on my way. Just send the bill to FBI Headquarters on Sixty-ninth Street." He closed the door on the doctor's enthusiastic: "Yes, _sir_!" and went on down the hallway and out into the street. At Seventh Avenue and Greenwich Avenue he flagged a cab. What a place to be, Malone thought as the cab drove away. Where but in Greenwich Village did avenues intersect each other without so much as a by-your-leave? "Statler-Hilton Hotel," he said, giving the whole thing up as a bad job. He put his hat on his head and adjusted it painfully to the proper angle. And that, he thought, made another little problem. The car had not only hit him on the head; it had removed his hat before doing so, and then replaced it. It had only fallen off when he'd started to get up against the lamp post. _A nice quiet vacation_, Malone thought bitterly. He fumed in silence all the way to the hotel, through the lobby, up in the elevator and to the door of his room. Then he remembered the notebook. That was important evidence. He decided to tell Boyd about it right away.