Two Italian epees were crossed over a blood-stained plastron with masks and gloves under them. A Luger and a Colt revolver lay on the mantlepiece. There was a cannel coal fire burning in the grate. A coffee table before the fire bore a bucket of ice in which reclined a bottle of champagne. On a couch behind the table reclined an exquisite little ingénue wearing a blue velvet dinner gown trimmed with miniver. The fire and candles were the only illumination. A phonograph was playing the "Rosenkavalier" waltzes. "Drink?" Stacy inquired lazily. He uncorked the champagne bottle deftly and filled glasses. "No thanks." Stacy and the girl drank, gazing into each other's eyes over the glasses. Lennox said: "If you'll just give me a minute, Oliver. Alone?" Stacy brushed the girl's palm with his lips, then took Lennox into a fitted dressing room hung with a dozen framed water-colors. They were nudes; all signed O.S. One of them bore a faint resemblance to Kay Hill. It was convincingly red-headed. "It's about blackmail, Oliver." "Pay with a gun." "What?" "The barrel of a gun across the bridge of a nose," Stacy spread his shoulders lazily. "I learned that lesson in Morocco." "You've had experience before?" "I've had every experience." "Then read these." Lennox whipped out the photostats and handed them to Stacy who read them carefully, a lazy smile curling his mouth. His expression never changed. "Threats," he said at last. "The ones that mean business never write." "They don't scare you?" "Nothing scares me." "Who's writing them, Oliver?" "Don't you know?" "No." "I thought you came to borrow a gun." "Were they written to you?" "To me?" Stacy shook his head slightly. "I've got enemies. A man's enemies. We know each other. We don't have to be anonymous." Stacy spread his shoulders. "I'll pack a gun to the theater Sunday. I'll back your play, Jake. I can break a nose." "I think they're to you, Oliver." "What difference does it make? I'm making it my fight." "I don't want a fight. We've got enough trouble as it is. I want to avoid a fight." "You never can, Jake. As soon as you realize that you'll grow up." Stacy smiled lazily. "You go around the world and you learn one thing. It's all a fight, and the only way to keep from losing is to win." "Oliver, if you're so hot for breaking noses, will you for God's sake find him and break it before Sunday." "No trouble at all, Jake. Tell me where he is." "I don't know. You do." "Not me." "These letters are to you. You fit the description.... Dark man. Elegant. Live on the east side. Went to college...." "But not a vestal virgin." "What?" "I thought it was obvious. Didn't you notice it in the letter? Right here. He's written: 'You vomit virgin with your Judas morals....' Is that me, Jake?" Stacy pointed to the nudes on the wall. "Would anybody who knows me call me virginal ... moralistic?"