She hesitated. "I did," she admitted. "It was--I'm sorry, Mr. Wills. It was an impulse. I shouldn't have done it." "What was it, Rena?" She shook her head. "I am sorry. It doesn't matter. But I am a bad hostess; won't you come in?" * * * * * The room behind the door was long and narrow, with worn furniture and a door that led, perhaps, to another room behind. It seemed dusty and, hating myself as a snooping fool, I took careful note that there was a faint aroma of tobacco. I had been quite sure that she didn't smoke, that evening we had met. She gestured at a chair--there only were two, both pulled up to a crude wooden table, on which were two poured cups of coffee. "Please sit down," she invited. I reminded myself that it was, after all, none of my business if she chose to entertain friends--even friends who smoked particularly rancid tobacco. And if they preferred not to be around when I came to the door, why, that was their business, not mine. I said cautiously, "I didn't mean to interrupt you." "Interrupt me?" She saw my eyes on the cups. "Oh--oh, no, Mr. Wills. That other cup is for you, you see. I poured it when Luisa told me you were at the gate. It isn't very good, I'm afraid," she said apologetically. I made an effort to sip the coffee; it was terrible. I set it down. "Rena, I just found out about your policies. Believe me, I'm sorry. I hadn't known about it, when we had dinner together; I would have--Well, I don't know what I would have done. There isn't much I can do, truthfully; I don't want you thinking I have any great power. But I wish I had known--I might not have made you cry, at any rate." She smiled an odd sort of smile. "That wasn't the reason, Mr. Wills." "Please call me Tom. Well, then, why did you cry?" "It is of no importance. Please." I coughed and tried a different tack. "You understand that I do have _some_ authority. And I would like to help you if I can--if you'll let me." "Let you? How could I prevent it?" Her eyes were deep and dark. I shook myself and pulled the notes I'd made on her policies from my pocket. In the most official voice I could manage, I said, "You see, there may be some leeway in interpreting the facts. As it stands, frankly, there isn't much hope. But if you'll give me some information--" "Certainly." "All right. Now, your father--Benedetto dell'Angela. He was a casualty of the war with Sicily; he got a dose of radiation, and he is at present in a low-metabolism state in the clinic at Anzio, waiting for the radiogens to clear out of his system. Is that correct?" "It is what the Company's report said," she answered. * * * * * Her tone was odd. Surely she wasn't doubting a Company report!