Horner let the unconscious Overman fall. He was about to flee back to the elevator because he couldn't face his wife now, not--apparently--as the man who had just knocked Hugh Horner unconscious. But an apartment door between theirs and the elevator opened and Horner had no choice but to duck into his own apartment. Jane appeared from the direction of the kitchen. She was wearing an apron and she was dumpier than Horner remembered. Probably, Horner told himself, my own dumpiness prevented me from seeing her that way. She wore her hair in a bun and was forty-five and looked it. She was holding a heavy green-glass pitcher in her hand and looked down at what was apparently her unconscious husband on the floor and let out a scream--or began to, for Horner ran to her and clasped a hand over her mouth. "I can explain everything," he said, wondering if, indeed, he could. "If you promise not to shout or scream, I'll let go of you." The trapped face nodded. Horner let go and his wife said, "I know you. I know you now. I recognize you from the television. You're that Lionel Overstreet--" "Overman--but I'm not." "Who escaped from the prison up state. What--what did you do to my husband?" "I," said Horner, "am your husband." She looked at him. She looked at the Hugh Horner body, unconscious, on the floor. She sobbed hysterically and Horner said: "You're both coming with me, in your car." "A murderer! You'll kill us." "Janey, listen to me. That time in Jones Beach before we were married and the top of your bathing suit came off while we were swimming--" It was something only she and the real Horner would know, but he had waited too long. He had been staring down at the unconscious Lionel Overman while he spoke, and when he looked up it was too late to ward off the green-glass pitcher which Jane was bringing down over his head. It exploded there. So did the world--for Horner. There was a buzzing. There was a roaring. Horner opened his eyes. He was seated on the floor and his arms were bound. So were his legs. He looked across the foyer. Overman-in-Horner was similarly seated, similarly bound. * * * * * "You're both driving me crazy," Jane Horner said. "You call the cops," Overman-in-Horner a asked. "Not yet. I'll give you both a chance. You," she gestured at Overman, "weren't acting yourself since you came home last night. You acted--well--cruel. That's the only way I can describe it." "Of course he wasn't acting himself," Horner-in-Overman said. "Because he isn't--me." "That makes sense, don't it?" Overman sneered. "And you wouldn't say 'don't it,'" Jane told him. "And you," she said to Horner, "when you let go of me I knew I was going to hit you with the pitcher and I couldn't stop it, even when I wanted to when you said that about Jones Beach. We--we were alone, my husband and me. But how could you be my husband? You don't look like him. You--you're young enough to be my--my son."