After the lecture hall had emptied, Fanshaw stood a moment behind the desk thoughtfully plucking at the elastic round a bundle of papers. Let's see, he'd have time to go over to Wenny's for a moment before starting to sort those photographs. Pulling on his arctics again, he walked down the road towards Conant. The snow had nearly vanished under the beat of the warm rain. Now there'd be some spring. It was time he and Wenny and Nan were going to Nahant again. He climbed the stairs and knocked at the room door. The door was unlatched and swung open. The bed had not been slept in. There were no papers on the desk. Fanshaw felt a sudden catch of excitement in his throat. Could he be out with some woman? Wenny, with drunken eyes and flushed cheeks, in the arms of a fat, painted blonde. Horrible. He was too fine for that sort of thing. Poor kid. On the mantelpiece was a little snapshot of Nan propped against some volumes of the Golden Bough. Fanshaw barely glanced at it and flushed as if he had caught himself intruding into some inner privacy. Poor Wenny, he probably is crazy about her. Fanshaw scribbled a note on a piece of yellow paper and left it on the desk: Wenny, you little debauchee, where are you hiding yourself? Come over at tea time. F. In the hall outside he found Herb Roscoe shaking the water off an oilskin slicker. "How do you do? Have you seen Wendell about anywhere recently?" "No, I haven't seen him in the last couple of days.... I don't quite know what he's up to these days; looks like to me he was in love or somethin', he's been actin' so queer." Herb Roscoe laughed and gave the slicker a final shake. Fanshaw's face stiffened. "O, I don't think it's that," he said coldly, nodded, and went down the steps. While he was crossing the little triangle of grass in front of the seated statue of John Harvard, Fanshaw stopped a moment to sniff the moist air that for the first time that season smelt of earth and gardens. The rain had stopped, and there were breaks of blue in the brightening sky. A grimyfaced boy ran by calling an extra. Fanshaw was turning away, so as not to see the great blocks of print, when his eye caught the headline: BAFFLING HARVARD MURDER MYSTERY Body of Harvard Graduate Student Fanshaw grabbed the boy's shoulder. "That paper." "A nickel cause it's a extra." I must go home. He folded the paper almost stealthily and strode across the yard, neither looking to the right or to the left. Get home before anyone speaks to me. How hideous if anyone should speak to me. Professor Walpole, grey beard and narrow, steelrimmed glasses, was coming down the boardwalk; he stopped and smiled benignantly at Fanshaw: "You've heard the news, haven't you, Mr. Macdougan?" "What news?" asked Fanshaw, his hands quaking, his tongue dry in his mouth from horror. "Why we are going to have a Velasquez for two months...." "How wonderful!... Pardon me, won't you, I've got a pressing engagement."