Lawton turned to the weeping old man. "Who were you after?" he demanded. All he got was sobbing pleas to let him go; all he was likely to get was more of the same. The man was in pure panic. We got him up to one of the receiving offices on the upper level, half carried by the expediters. Lawton questioned him mercilessly for half an hour before giving up. The man was by then incapable of speech. He had said, as nearly as we could figure it out, only that he was sorry he had gone into the forbidden place, he didn't mean to go into the forbidden place, he had been sleeping in the shadow of the forbidden place when fighting began and he fled inside. It was perfectly apparent to me that he was telling the truth--and, more, that any diversionary riot designed to get _him_ inside with a hypodermic and gas gun would have been planned by maniacs, for I doubted he could have found the trigger of the gun. But Lawton seemed to think he was lying. It was growing late. Lawton offered to drive me to my hotel, leaving the man in the custody of the expediters. On the way, out of curiosity, I asked: "Suppose he had succeeded? Can you revive a suspendee as easily as that, just by sticking a needle in his arm?" Lawton grunted. "Pretty near, that and artificial respiration. One case in a hundred might need something else--heart massage or an incubator, for instance. But most of the time an antilytic shot is enough." Then Rena had not been as mad as I thought. I said: "And do you think that old man could have accomplished anything?" Lawton looked at me curiously. "Maybe." "Who do you suppose he was after?" Lawton said off-handedly. "He was right near Bay 100, wasn't he?" "Bay 100?" Something struck a chord; I remembered following Rena down the corridor, passing a door that was odd in some way. Was the number 100 on that door? "Is that the one that's locked off, with the sign on it that says anybody who goes in is asking for trouble?" "That's the one. Though," he added, "nobody is going to get in. That door is triple-plate armor; the lock opens only to the personal fingerprint pattern of Defoe and two or three others." "What's inside it that's so important?" He said coldly, "How would I know? I can't open the door." And that was the end of the conversation. I knew _he_ was lying. * * * * * I had changed my bet with myself on the way. I won it. Rena was in the room waiting for me. She was sound asleep, stretched out on the bed. She looked as sober-faced and intent in her sleep as a little girl--a look I had noticed in Marianna's sleeping face once. It was astonishing how little I thought about Marianna any more.