Elizabeth's face was white in the gloom. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "We never saw you before." "No. But you took away my job. I was in the breadlines back in the thirties. I'm there again, and it's your fault, you--Got any prayers to say?" A gibbering ran through Arch's brain. He stood motionless, thinking through a lunatic mind-tilt that there must be some way to jump that gun, the heroes of stories always did it, that might-- Someone moved out of the night into the wan radiance. An arm went about the man's throat, another seized his gun wrist and snapped it down. The weapon went off, sounding like the crack of doom in the stillness. They struggled on the slippery sidewalk, panting, the rain running over dimly glimpsed faces. Arch's paralysis broke, he moved in and circled around, looking for a chance to help. There! Crouching, he got hold of the assassin's ankle and clung. There was a meaty smack above him, and the body sagged. Elizabeth held her hand over her mouth, as if to force back a scream. "Mr. Horrisford," she whispered. "The same," said the FBI man. "That was a close one. You can be thankful you're an object of suspicion, Arch. What was he after?" Arch stared blankly at his rescuer. Slowly, meaning penetrated. "Unemployed--" he mumbled. "Bitter about it--" "Yeah. I thought so. You may be having more trouble of that sort. This depression, people have someone concrete to blame." Horrisford stuck the gun in his pocket and helped up his half-conscious victim. "Let's get this one down to the lockup. Here, you support him while I put on some handcuffs." "But I wanted to help his kind," said Arch feebly. "You didn't," said Horrisford. "I'd better arrange for a police guard." * * * * * Arch spent the following day in a nearly suicidal depression. Elizabeth tried to pull him out of it, failed, and went downtown after a fifth of whiskey. That helped. The hangover helped too. It's hard to concentrate on remorse when ten thousand red-hot devils are building an annex to Hell in your skull. Toward evening, he was almost cheerful again. A certain case-hardening was setting in. After dark, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Horrisford and a stranger stood there. "Oh--come in," he said "Excuse the mess. I--haven't been feeling so well." "Anyone here?" asked the agent. "Just my wife." "She'll be all right," said the stranger impatiently. He was a big, stiff, gray-haired man. "Bring her in, please. This is important." They were settled in the living room before Horrisford performed the introductions. "Major General Brackney of Strategic Services." Arch's hand was wet as he acknowledged the handclasp. "This is most irregular," said the general. "However, we've put through a special check on you. A fast but very thorough check. In spite of your errors of judgment, the FBI is convinced of your essential loyalty. Your discretion is another matter."