Instead, she patted my cheek gently. "Dave," I heard her say. "It's five-thirty. Time to put the water on for coffee." I sighed deeply, pretending to wake up, and got out of bed without looking at her. I felt her eyes on my back as I stumbled toward the door and temporary escape from her inquiring eyes. The rheumatism in my right shoulder was throbbing painfully. I had never seen the living room before. It was furnished with things that were well kept, but out of style. It wasn't my living room. Nevertheless I crossed it to the kitchen and quietly searched cupboards until I found the dripolator and a kettle that was obviously used for heating the coffee water. I filled it and placed it over a gas flame. Not until then did I let myself think. I was Fred Martin. I must remember that. There was strong evidence that I was Orville Snyder with a no-good wife who might be either alive or murdered. Now--I took a deep breath--who else was I? There was a mirror hanging on the wall beside the breakfast table. I could look at myself in it. Or would my face blur like the type on those headlines I had been dreaming about? The gray haired woman had called me Dave. I went to the mirror and looked at my reflection. I had steeled myself to expect anything. My own face looked at me, an intense frown of concentration on it, the eyelids drawn down to mere slits. I sighed with relief. At least I still had that one thing to cling to. I rubbed my cheek with visibly trembling fingers and mentally damned my aching right shoulder. The water in the kettle was singing. It reminded me of what I had come in here to do. I spent five minutes searching for the coffee and found it in a white can of a set containing everything from tea to flour. I guessed at the amount to put in the dripolator, poured the boiling water in the top half, then went to the bathroom and found an electric razor in the medicine cabinet. Afterwards I braved the bedroom again and put on the clothes draped neatly over a chair. They weren't my clothes, but they fit. The woman chatted cheerfully. "I have so much to do today," she said. "The Bridge Club meets here today. I can never stand that Mrs. Chadwick, but I have to put up with her or give up Bridge. The laundry will come back today, too. I wonder if Ralphs will have that brand of caviar Edith said is so good?" * * * * * I didn't make any response, and she didn't seem to expect me to. I was just someone to talk in the presence of. I was dressed. I touched the wallet in the hip pocket of my trousers and wondered whose identifications I would find in it. I escaped to the kitchen again to find out, but the woman came after me, putting on her bathrobe, continuing her line of chatter. "Why don't you get the paper out of the hall, Dave?" she said suddenly. I groaned at the thought. "Your rheumatism bad again?" she said sympathetically. "I'll get it."