Lennox put on the blue bathrobe and the straw slippers and meekly followed the attendant down the ward. "What day is today?" he asked. "Wednesday." The ward doors were unlocked and they passed out into a white corridor. Barred windows looked west across The Rock and halfway into New Jersey on this crisp, clear afternoon. "More tests?" Lennox asked. "Nope. You're all finished, buster." "What now?" No answer. Lennox shuffled in silence and terror. "Are they going to lock me up for good?" The red-head thrust open a door and led him into a tiled bathroom. Alongside the shower was a white table on which was neatly folded the clothing Lennox had worn the previous Sunday. "Extra special for you," he said. "Why didn't you tell us you was a big wheel, buster? Wash up and get dressed." In a daze, Lennox bathed and dressed. He looked at himself in the wash mirror. He was completely unchanged ... except for the three-day beard on his face. "Why should I be changed?" he thought. "Nothing's changed inside me. I'm like all the rest. Sick. Feeding on what happened to Sam. Living on poison. Loving the poison. It's only the innocents like Sam who suffer. Our diet kills them." Outside in the corridor, the red-head was waiting for him, sneaking a smoke like a convict. He pinched out the end of the cigarette, put it in his pocket, and took Lennox downstairs. There was a blurry business in an office of unlocking a file and restoring his possessions ... money, watch, keys, and the gimmick book which he slid into his jacket. He flexed his right arm against it repeatedly. It was his one hold on his life. There was further confusion in other offices; papers to be signed by a hand that could hardly bring itself to touch the pen, warnings and official counsel to be heard, a brisk lawyer whom Lennox vaguely recalled meeting before somewhere in the network. And most incredible of all, there was Ned Bacon waiting for him in the hospital lobby, leaning against a pillar like a Private Eye with his hat cocked over his brow. Bacon shook hands warmly and took him out to his car. Lennox was confused. "Yeah," Bacon said as he drove uptown, "We kicked it around and figured the best thing would be to hand Cooper the rap. He was cooled anyway and there was no percentage letting you sit in the penalty box." "You told them Sam wrote the letters?" Lennox faltered. "Sure. That's how we sprung you. That lawyer could be a Federal judge if he was willing to lose money." "But Fink and Salerno...." "Bob's a buddy," Bacon drawled. "We gave him the sign and he listened to reason." "So everybody thinks Sam...?" "Yeah." Lennox lay back in the seat, limp and helpless, too exhausted after three days of horror and remorse even to ask questions. He flexed his right arm against the gimmick book and let the arm drop into his lap. Bacon glanced at him and smiled knowingly. "Been rubbing elbows in the marketplace, huh Jake?" "I'm thinking of Sam."