"What the hell is this?" Lennox looked from Fink to Salerno. "I tell you who's writing the letters and you want to talk. Go talk to him." Salerno slipped behind Lennox and caught his arm in a paralyzing grasp. "Come on out to the car," he said softly. "I will like hell come out to the car. What's the matter with you two?" "You want it tough?" Fink asked. Lennox was bewildered. In the background, the orchestra echoed brilliantly. "Tell him," Salerno said. "Now don't blow your top." Fink smiled. "We want to drive you down to City Hospital for a check-up." "Me? City Hospital?" "Just for a couple of days. Won't cost you a cent." "What are you talking about?" "Come on, Lennox. Don't make it tough." "I asked you what the hell you're talking about. City Hospital! Is this your idea of a funny?" "Tell him," Salerno repeated. "We know you're writing these letters," Fink said. "You know I'm writing--" Lennox was staggered. "You know I'm writing the letters? To myself?" Fink nodded. "You always smile at the wrong time," Lennox said slowly. "This is a joke-type joke at the wrong time. Yes?" "We'll talk it over down at the hospital." "What makes you think I'm writing the letters?" "Tell him," Salerno said impatiently. "Maybe he'll listen to reason." "Will you behave yourself if I show you?" Fink asked. Lennox nodded. There was a last fanfare off and then dead silence as the dress ended. Fink took a manila envelope out of his pocket and produced the poison pen letters. He unfolded one and pointed to the hysterical scrawl. "See? Five words to a line. In every letter. Five words to a line, no more, no less. That's an old telegrapher's habit, from counting ten word messages. We checked this program. You're the only ex-telegrapher working it. You're a professional telegrapher from twenty years back, when you were a kid in this town on Long Island." "Islip," Lennox croaked. "Yes." "And we found your prints in the envelopes." "I handled the envelopes," Lennox said desperately. "When Grabinett showed me the letters." "I didn't say on the envelopes. I said in the envelopes. We found your prints inside, under the flap, but the envelopes were slit open at the end. The only one who could leave prints inside there is the one that put the letter in the envelope and sealed it. Now come on, Lennox. Don't make it tough." "For God's sake, Bob! How could I write them and not know about it? I was scared. I was out of my mind trying to find who it was. How could it be me?" "They'll tell you down at the hospital. Come on." "The lunatic ward?" "Don't get jumpy. You won't be in a strait jacket." "Yeah," Salerno said. "Nice down there. Pretty nurses." "But--" "Come on," Fink said, and for the first time a terrifying hardness manifested itself under the surface of his mildness.