Was it because she had at the beginning imagined that a mad killer might be following her; that morbidity and madness were often closely allied? Was it because she had suddenly begun to realize that deception, too, could be a fine art--if a man were a killer at heart? He might be everything that he claimed to be, a young, unhappy and frustrated artist, desperately seeking commercial success, and still be a youth with a gun who had allowed his morbidity to drive him over the borderline. A youth with an imagined grievance against Lathrup, compulsively driven to seek redress for that grievance through an act of brutal violence. When had he called at the office, seeking an interview which had been denied him? Yesterday ... two or three days ago? She had failed to ask him. Not that morning, surely, not before-- But how could she be entirely sure that he _hadn't_ called at the office in the morning, that he _hadn't_ stealthily found his way to Lathrup's office after pretending to leave, and.... She arose suddenly, determined to remain calm, to keep such thoughts from mushrooming out and growing to monstrous proportions in her mind. Just nerves, she told herself firmly. No reason at all to think him a crafty dissembler, when his every word and gesture had borne the stamp of absolute sincerity. No one could be that perfect an actor. She had liked him ... she still liked him ... and she hoped that he would call at the office again, when the horror had become just a dim, receding memory--could it ever be quite that, she wondered--and he would ask her to lunch and she would look at his new drawings and all fear, all suspicion would be banished from her mind. She crossed to the heavy plate-glass door, pulled inward and emerged into the street without a backward glance. She had a momentary qualm about not having ordered anything, even a cup of coffee. But she shrugged it off, telling herself that if the waitress and cashier were unhappy about it they could ... yes, go to hell. Chapter IV Ralph Gilmore could not escape from the nightmare. There was no escape anywhere, for his world had become star-crossed with dark patterns of betrayal and outrage that hid the light of the sun and turned the still wet, slippery pavement beneath his feet into a quagmire. He experienced a sinking sensation, a hollowness at the pit of his stomach which forced him to take refuge in his room and even there he could find no peace.