"Winnie, that particular joke is getting tiresome. You know perfectly well it's 172 East 72nd Street and the third floor front. The name, naturally, is Smith." "John Smith?" I inquired. "Natch! And hurry, unless you want to be in worse trouble than you can imagine." I signaled to Tammy. "One more Second Day Special, please." He looked worried. "Are you quite sure, sir," he demurred. "Two is as much as I've ever seen a man take." He returned to his mystery and produced the fatal brew. I drank it slowly. By Godfrey! this was more like it. I tossed him a five-dollar bill. "Just remember that you haven't seen me," I told him. "Quite, Mr. Tompkins." I managed to snag an uptown taxi and rolled in comfort to 172 East 72nd Street. I pressed the button marked Smith and was rewarded by a clicking of the latch. I climbed the stairs and on the third story tapped the little brass knocker. The door opened and Virginia appeared clad somewhat in a white silk dressing-gown and with her red hair sizzling out at me. "Come in, stranger," she said. She closed the door and settled herself comfortably, with a cigarette, on the suspiciously broad day-bed. I sat down in a very deep easy chair, facing her, and lighted a cigarette too. "Well?" I inquired. "Winnie," she began, "you know I never try to interfere with your private life or try to ask questions, but don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?" I flicked some ash on the carpet and tried to look inscrutable. "You know what you are doing, of course," she continued, "and your performance in Washington was magnificent, but just between ourselves, can't you relax?" Although the windows were open, the room seemed oppressively warm. I threw back my coat and confronted her without speaking. "Of course," Virginia continued, "I know we've got to be discreet. There can always be dictaphones and detectives and it seems that the F.B.I. knows all about this place, but can't you just--" She jumped up and faced me. With an angry movement, she snatched off her dressing-gown and flung it on the floor. "There!" she said. "Is there anything _wrong_ with me? Am I repulsive? Or don't you care?" It must have been the three specials that lifted me from the easy chair and whisked me across the room to the embattled red head, but it must have been my guardian angel that prompted my next move. I pulled out my fountain pen and wrote rapidly on the back of an envelope: "I suspect that we are watched." Her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed her gown and draped it around her. I laid my finger to my lips. "What I came to see you about, Virginia," I said, "is to tell you, once and for all, that all is over between us." That was a mistake. She gave me a wink, dropped the gown and came and sat beside me on the arm of the chair. "I too, Winfred," she said dramatically, "have become increasingly distressed by your apparent coldness."