He could have spent his nights thinking up new business tricks, instead of swilling whiskey. Could have gone out of his way to be pleasant to customers, not snap at them when he had a terrific hangover. And even Miller knew nobody ever made any money on the horses--at least, not when he needed it. But horses and whiskey and business had become tragically confused in his mind; so here he was, full of liquor and madness, with a gun to his head. Then again anger swept his mind clean of reason, and he threw his chin up and gripped the gun tight. "Run out on me, will she!" he muttered thickly. "Well--this'll show her!" In the next moment the hammer fell ... and Dave Miller had "shown her." Miller opened his eyes with a start. As plain as black on white, he'd heard a bell ring--the most familiar sound in the world, too. It was the unmistakable tinkle of his cash register. "Now, how in hell--" The thought began in his mind; and then he saw where he was. The cash register was right in front of him! It was open, and on the marble slab lay a customer's five-spot. Miller's glance strayed up and around him. He was behind the drug counter, all right. There were a man and a girl sipping cokes at the fountain, to his right; the magazine racks by the open door; the tobacco counter across from the fountain. And right before him was a customer. Good Lord! he thought. Was all this a--a dream? Sweat oozed out on his clammy forehead. That stuff of Herman's that he had drunk during the game--it had had a rank taste, but he wouldn't have thought anything short of marihuana could produce such hallucinations as he had just had. Wild conjectures came boiling up from the bottom of Miller's being. How did he get behind the counter? Who was the woman he was waiting on? What-- The woman's curious stare was what jarred him completely into the present. Get rid of her! was his one thought. Then sit down behind the scenes and try to figure it all out. His hand poised over the cash drawer. Then he remembered he didn't know how much he was to take out of the five. Avoiding the woman's glance, he muttered: "Let's see, now, that was--uh--how much did I say?" The woman made no answer. Miller cleared his throat, said uncertainly: "I beg your pardon, ma'am--did I say--seventy-five cents?" It was just a feeler, but the woman didn't even answer to that. And it was right then that Dave Miller noticed the deep silence that brooded in the store. Slowly his head came up and he looked straight into the woman's eyes. She returned him a cool, half-smiling glance. But her eyes neither blinked nor moved. Her features were frozen. Lips parted, teeth showing a little, the tip of her tongue was between her even white teeth as though she had started to say "this" and stopped with the syllable unspoken.