THE first meeting with Stillman took place in Riverside Park. It was mid-afternoon, a Saturday of bicycles, dog-walkers, and children. Stillman was sitting alone on a bench, staring out at nothing in particular, the little red notebook on his lap. There was light everywhere, an immense light that seemed to radiate outward from each thing the eye caught hold of, and overhead, in the branches of the trees, a breeze continued to blow, shaking the leaves with a passionate hissing, a rising and failing that breathed on as steadily as surf.
Quinn had planned his moves carefully. Pretending not to notice Stillman, he sat down on the bench beside him, folded his arms across his chest, and stared out in the same direction as the old man. Neither of them spoke. By his later calculations, Quinn estimated that this went on for fifteen or twenty minutes. Then, without warning, he turned his head toward the old man and looked at him point-blank, stubbornly fixing his eyes on the wrinkled profile. Quinn concentrated all his strength in his eyes, as if they could begin to burn a hole in Stillman's skull. This stare went on for five minutes.
At last Stillman turned to him. In a surprisingly gentle tenor voice he said, "I'm sorry, but it won't be possible for me to talk to you. "
"I haven't said anything," said Quinn.
"That's true," said Stillman. "But you must understand that I'm not in the habit of talking to strangers."
"I repeat," said Quinn, "that I haven't said anything."
"Yes, I heard you the first time. But aren't you interested in knowing why?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well put. I can see you're a man of sense."
Quinn shrugged, refusing to respond. His whole being now exuded indifference.
Stillman smiled brightly at this, leaned toward Quinn, and said in a conspiratorial voice, "I think we're going to get along."
"That remains to be seen," said Quinn after a long pause.
Stillman laughed-a brief, booming "haw”-and then continued. "It's not that I dislike strangers per se. It's just that I prefer not to speak to anyone who does not introduce himself. In order to begin, I must have a name."
"But once a man gives you his name, he's no longer a stranger.
"Exactly. That's why I never talk to strangers."
Quinn had been prepared for this and knew how to answer. He was not going to let himself be caught. Since he was technically Paul Auster, that was the name he had to protect. Anything else, even the truth, would be an invention, a mask to hide behind and keep him safe.
"In that case," he said, "I'm happy to oblige you. My name is Quinn."
"Ah," said Stillman reflectively, nodding his head. "Quinn."
"Yes, Quinn. Q-U-I-N-N."
"I see. Yes, yes, I see. Quinn. Hmmm. Yes. Very interesting. Quinn. A most resonant word. Rhymes with twin, does it not?"
"That's right. Twin."
"And sin, too, if I'm not mistaken."
"You're not. "
"And also in-one n-or inn-two. Isn't that so?"
"Exactly. "
"Hmmm. Very interesting. I see many possibilities for this word, this Quinn, this… quintessence… of quiddity. Quick, for example. And quill. And quack. And quirk. Hmmm. Rhymes with grin. Not to speak of kin. Hmmm. Very interesting. And win. And fin. And din. And gin. And pin. And tin. And bin. Hmmm. Even rhymes with djinn. Hmmm. And if you say it right, with been. Hmmm. Yes, very interesting. I like your name enormously, Mr. Quinn. It flies off in so many little directions at once.
"Yes, I've often noticed that myself."
"Most people don't pay attention to such things. They think of words as stones, as great unmovable objects with no life, as monads that never change."
"Stones can change. They can be worn away by wind or water. They can erode. They can be crushed. You can turn them into shards, or gravel, or dust."
"Exactly. I could tell you were a man of sense right away, Mr. Quinn. If you only knew how many people have misunderstood me. My work has suffered because of it. Suffered terribly."
"Your work?"
"Yes, my work. My projects, my investigations, my experiments."
"Ah."
"Yes. But in spite of all the setbacks, I have never really been daunted. At present, for example, I am engaged in one of the most important things I have ever done. If all goes well, I believe I will hold the key to a series of major discoveries."
"The key?"
"Yes, the key. A thing that opens locked doors."
“Ah.”
"Of course, for the time being I'm merely collecting data, gathering evidence so to speak. Then I will have to coordinate my findings. It's highly demanding work. You wouldn't believe how hard-especially for a man of my age."
"I can imagine."
"That's right. There's so much to do, and so little time to do it. Every morning I get up at dawn. I have to be outside in all kinds of weather, constantly on the move, forever on my feet, going from one place to the next. It wears me out, you can be sure of that."
"But it's worth it."
"Anything for the truth. No sacrifice is too great."
"Indeed.”
"You see, no one has understood what I have understood. I'm the first. I'm the only one. It puts a great burden of responsibility on me."
"The world on your shoulders."
"Yes, so to speak. The world, or what is left of it."
"I hadn't realized it was as bad as that.
"It's that bad. Maybe even worse."
"Ah."
"You see, the world is in fragments, sir. And it's my job to put it back together again."
"You've taken on quite a bit."
"I realize that. But I'm merely looking for the principle. That's well within the scope of one man. If I can lay the foundation, other hands can do the work of restoration itself. The important thing is the premise, the theoretical first step. Unfortunately, there is no one else who can do this."
"Have you made much progress?"
"Enormous strides. In fact, I feel now that I'm on the verge of a significant breakthrough."
"I'm reassured to hear it."
"It's a comforting thought, yes. And it's all because of my cleverness, the dazzling clarity of my mind."
"I don't doubt it."
"You see, I've understood the need to limit myself. To work within a terrain small enough to make all results conclusive."
"The premise of the premise, so to speak."
"That's it, exactly. The principle of the principle, the method of operation. You see, the world is in fragments, sir. Not only have we lost our sense of. purpose, we have lost the language whereby we can speak of it. These are no doubt spiritual matters, but they have their analogue in the material world. My brilliant stroke has been to confine myself to physical things, to the immediate and tangible. My motives are lofty, but my work now takes place in the realm of the everyday. That's why I'm so often misunderstood. But no matter. I've learned to shrug these things off."
"An admirable response."
"The only response. The only one worthy of a man of my stature. You see, I am in the process of inventing a new language. With work such as that to do, I can't be bothered by the stupidity of others. In any case, it's all part of the disease I'm trying to cure. "
"A new language?"
"Yes. A language that will at last say what we have to say. For our words no longer correspond to the world. When things were whole, we felt confident that our words could express them. But little by little these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet our words have remained the same. They have not adapted themselves to the new reality. Hence, every time we try to speak of what we see, we speak falsely, distorting the very thing we are trying to represent. It's made a mess of everything. But words, as you yourself understand, are capable of change. The problem is how to demonstrate this. That is why I now work with the simplest means possible-so simple that even a child can grasp what I am saying. Consider a word that refers to a thing-'umbrella,' for example. When I say the word 'umbrella,' you see the object in your mind. You see a kind of stick, with collapsible metal spokes on top that form an armature for a waterproof material which, when opened, will protect you from the rain. This last detail is important. Not only is an umbrella a thing, it is a thing that performs a function-in other words, expresses the will of man. When you stop to think of it, every object is similar to the umbrella, in that it serves a function. A pencil is for writing, a shoe is for wearing, a car is for driving. Now, my question is this. What happens when a thing no longer performs its function? Is it still the thing, or has it become something else? When you rip the cloth off the umbrella, is the umbrella still an umbrella? You open the spokes, put them over your head, walk out into the rain, and you get drenched. Is it possible to go on calling this object an umbrella? In general, people do. At the very limit, they will say the umbrella is broken. To me this is a serious error, the source of all our troubles. Because it can no longer perform its function, the umbrella has ceased to be an umbrella. It might resemble an umbrella, it might once have been an umbrella, but now it has changed into something else. The word, however, has remained the same. Therefore, it can no longer express the thing. It is imprecise; it is false; it hides the thing it is supposed to reveal. And if we cannot even name a common, everyday object that we hold in our hands, how can we expect to speak of the things that truly concern us? Unless we can begin to embody the notion of change in the words we use, we will continue to be lost."
"And your work?"
"My work is very simple. I have come to New York because it is the most forlorn of places, the most abject. The brokenness is everywhere, the disarray is universal. You have only to open your eyes to see it. The broken people, the broken things, the broken thoughts. The whole city is a junk heap. It suits my purpose admirably. I find the streets an endless source of material, an inexhaustible storehouse of shattered things. Each day I go out with my bag and collect objects that seem worthy of investigation. My samples now number in the hundreds-from the chipped to the smashed, from the dented to the squashed, from the pulverized to the putrid."
"What do you do with these things?"
"I give them names."
"Names?"
"I invent new words that will correspond to the things."
"Ah. Now I see. But how do you decide? How do you know if you've found the right word?"
"I never make a mistake. It's a function of my genius."
"Could you give me an example?"
"Of one of my words?"
"Yes.”
"I’m sorry, but that won't be possible. It's my secret, you understand. Once I've published my book, you and the rest of the world will know. But for now I have to keep it to myself."
"Classified information."
"That's right. Top secret.
“I’m sorry.”
"You shouldn't be too disappointed. It won't be long now before I've put my findings in order. Then great things will begin to happen. It will be the most important event in the history of mankind.
The second meeting took place a little past nine o'clock the following morning. It was Sunday, and Stillman had emerged from the hotel an hour later than usual. He walked the two blocks to his customary breakfast place, the Mayflower Cafe, and sat down in a corner booth at the back. Quinn, growing bolder now, followed the old man into the restaurant and sat down in the same booth, directly opposite him. For a minute or two Stillman seemed not to notice his presence. Then, looking up from his menu, he studied Quinn's face in an abstract sort of way. He apparently did not recognize him from the day before.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
"I don't think so," said Quinn. "My name is Henry Dark."
"Ah," Stillman nodded. "A man who begins with the essential. I like that."
"I’m not one to beat around the bush," said Quinn.
"The bush? What bush might that be?"
"The burning bush, of course."
"Ah, yes. The burning bush. Of course." Stillman looked Quinn's face-a little more carefully now, but also with what seemed to be a certain confusion. "I'm sorry," he went on, "but don't remember your name. I recall that you gave it to me no long ago, but now it seems to be gone."
"Henry Dark," said Quinn.
"So it is. Yes, now it comes, back to me. Henry Dark." Stillman paused for a long moment and then shook his head. "Unfortunately, that's not possible, sir."
"Why not?"
"Because there is no Henry Dark."
"Well, perhaps I'm another Henry Dark. As opposed to the one who doesn't exist."
"Hmmm. Yes, I see your point. It is true that two people sometimes have the same name. It's quite possible that your name is Henry Dark. But you're not the Henry Dark."
"Is he a friend of yours?"
Stillman laughed, as if at a good joke. “Not exactly," he said. "You see, there never was any such person as Henry Dark. I made him up. He's an invention."
"No," said Quinn, with feigned disbelief.
"Yes. He's a character in a book I once wrote. A figment."
"I find that hard to accept."
“So did everyone else. I fooled them all."
"Amazing. Why in the world did you do it?"
"I needed him, you see. I had certain ideas at the time that were too dangerous and controversial. So I pretended they had come from someone else. It was a way of protecting myself"
"How did you decide on the name Henry Dark?"
"It's a good name, don't you think? I like it very much. Full of mystery, and at the same time quite proper. It suited my purpose well. And besides, it had a secret meaning."
"The allusion to darkness?"
"No, no. Nothing so obvious. It was the initials, H.D. That was very important."
"How so?"
"Don't you want to guess?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh, do try. Make three guesses. If you don't get it, then I'll tell you."
Quinn paused for a moment, trying to give it his best effort. “H.D.," he said. "For Henry David? As in Henry David Thoreau."
"Not even close."
"How about H. D. pure and simple? For the poet Hilda Doolittle.
"Worse than the first one."
"All right, one more guess. H. D. H… and D… Just a moment… How about… Just a moment… Ah… Yes, here we are. H for the weeping philosopher, Heraclitus… and D for the laughing philosopher, Democritus. Heraclitus and Democritus… the two poles of the dialectic."
"A very clever answer."
"Am I right?"
"No, of course not. But a clever answer just the same."
"You can't say I didn't try."
"No, I can't. That’s why I'm going to reward you with the correct answer. Because you tried. Are you ready?"
"Ready."
"The initials H.D. in the name Henry Dark refer to Humpty Dumpty. "
"Who?"
"Humpty Dumpty. You know who I mean. The egg."
"As in 'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.'?"
"Exactly.
"I don't understand."
"Humpty Dumpty: the purest embodiment of the human condition. Listen carefully, sir. What is an egg? It is that which has not yet been born. A paradox, is it not? For how can Humpty Dumpty be alive if he has not been born? And yet, he is alive-make no mistake. We know that because he can speak. More than that, he. is a philosopher of language. 'When I use a word, Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, it means just what I choose it to mean-neither more nor less. The question is, said Alice, whether you can make words mean so many different things. The question is, said Humpty Dumpty, which is to be master-that's all.
"Lewis Carroll."
"Through the Looking Glass, chapter six."
"Interesting.”
"It's more than interesting, sir. It's crucial. Listen carefully, and perhaps you will learn something. In his little speech to Alice, Humpty Dumpty sketches the future of human hopes and gives the clue to our salvation: to become masters of the words we speak, to make language answer our needs. Humpty Dumpty was a prophet, a man who spoke truths the world was not ready for."
"A man?"
"Excuse me. A slip of the tongue. I mean an egg. But the slip is instructive and helps to prove my point. For all men are eggs, in a manner of speaking. We exist, but we have not yet achieved the form that is our destiny. We are pure potential, an example of the not-yet-arrived. For man is a fallen creature-we know that from Genesis. Humpty Dumpty is also a fallen creature. He falls from his wall, and no one can put him back together again-neither the king, nor his horses, nor his men. But that is what we must all now strive to do. It is our duty as human beings: to put the egg back together again. For each of us, sir, is Humpty Dumpty. And to help him is to help ourselves."
"A convincing argument."
"It's impossible to find a flaw in it."
"No cracks in the egg."
"Exactly."
"And, at the same time, the origin of Henry Dark."
"Yes. But there is more to it than that. Another egg, in fact. "
"There's more than one?"
"Good heavens, yes. There are millions of them. But the one I have in mind is particularly famous. It's probably the most celebrated egg of all.
"You're beginning to lose me."
"I'm speaking of Columbus 's egg."
"Ah, yes. Of course."
"You know the story?"
"Everyone does."
"It's charming, is it not? When faced with the problem of how to stand an egg on its end, he merely tapped slightly on the bottom, cracking the shell just enough to create a certain flatness that would support the egg when he removed his hand."
"It worked."
"Of course it worked. Columbus was a genius. He sought paradise and discovered the New World. It is still not too late for it to become paradise."
"Indeed.
"I admit that things have not worked out too well yet. But there is still hope. Americans have never lost their desire to discover new worlds. Do you remember what happened in 1969?"
"I remember many things. What do you have in mind?"
"Men walked on the moon. Think of that, dear sir. Men walked on the moon!"
"Yes, I remember. According to the President, it was the greatest event since creation."
"He was right. The only intelligent thing that man ever said. And what do you suppose the moon looks like?"
"I have no idea."
"Come, come, think again."
"Oh yes. Now I see what you mean."
"Granted, the resemblance is not perfect. But it is true that in certain phases, especially on a clear night, the moon does look very much like an egg."
"Yes. Very much like."
At that moment, a waitress appeared with Stillman's breakfast and set it on the table before him. The old man eyed the food with relish. Decorously lifting a knife with his right hand, he cracked the shell of his soft-boiled egg and said, "As you can see, sir, I leave no stone unturned."
The third meeting took place later that same day. The afternoon was well advanced: the light like gauze on the bricks and leaves, the shadows lengthening. Once again, Stillman retreated to Riverside Park, this time to the edge of it, coming to rest on a knobby outcrop at 84th Street known as Mount Tom. On this same spot, in the summers of 1843 and 1844, Edgar Allan Poe had spent many long hours gazing out at the Hudson. Quinn knew this because he had made it his business to know such things. As it turned out, he had often sat there himself.
He felt little fear now about doing what he had to do. He circled the rock two or three times, but failed to get Stillman's attention. Then he sat down next to the old man and said hello. Incredibly, Stillman did not recognize him. This was the third time Quinn had presented himself, and each time it was as though Quinn had been someone else. He could not decide whether this was a good sign or bad. If Stillman was pretending, he was an actor like no other in the world. For each time Quinn had appeared, he had done it by surprise. And yet Stillman had not even blinked. On the other hand, if Stillman really did not recognize him, what did this mean? Was it possible for anyone to be so impervious to the things he saw?
The old man asked him who he was.
"My name is Peter Stillman," said Quinn.
"That's my name," answered Stillman. "I'm Peter Stillman."
"I'm the other Peter Stillman," said Quinn.
"Oh. You mean my son. Yes, that's possible. You look just like him. Of course, Peter is blond and you are dark. Not Henry Dark, but dark of hair. But people change, don't they? One minute we're one thing, and then another another."
"Exactly."
"I've often wondered about you, Peter. Many times I've thought to myself, 'I wonder how Peter is getting along.' "I'm much better now, thank you."
"I'm glad to hear it. Someone once told me you had died. It made me very sad."
"No, I've made a complete recovery."
"I can see that. Fit as a fiddle. And you speak so well, too."
"All words are available to me now. Even the ones most people have trouble with. I can say them all."
"I'm proud of you, Peter."
"I owe it all to you."
"Children are a great blessing. I've always said that. An incomparable blessing."
"I'm sure of it."
"As for me, I have my good days and my bad days. When the bad days come, I think of the ones that were good. Memory is a great blessing, Peter. The next best thing to death."
"Without a doubt."
"Of course, we must live in the present, too. For example, I am currently in New York. Tomorrow, I could be somewhere else. I travel a great deal, you see. Here today, gone tomorrow. It's part of my work."
"It must be stimulating."
"Yes, I'm very stimulated. My mind never stops."
"That's good to hear."
"The years weigh heavily, it's true. But we have so much to be thankful for. Time makes us grow old, but it also gives us the day and the night. And when we die, there is always someone to take our place."
"We all grow old."
"When you're old, perhaps you'll have a son to comfort you.”
"I would like that."
"Then you would be as fortunate as I have been. Remember, Peter, children are a great blessing."
"I won't forget."
"And remember, too, that you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. Conversely, don't count your chickens before they hatch. "
"No. I try to take things as they come."
"Last of all, never say a thing you know in your heart is not true."
“I won't.”
"Lying is a bad thing. It makes you sorry you were ever born. And not to have been born is a curse. You are condemned to live outside time. And when you live outside time, there is no day and night. You don't even get a chance to die."
"I understand."
"A lie can never be undone. Even the truth is not enough. I am a father and I know about these things. Remember what happened to the father of our country. He chopped down the cherry tree, and then he said to his father, 'I cannot tell a lie.' Soon thereafter, he threw the coin across the river. These two stories are crucial events in American history. George Washington chopped down the tree, and then he threw away the money. Do you understand? He was telling us an essential truth. Namely, that money doesn't grow on trees. This is what made our country great, Peter. Now George Washington's picture is on every dollar bill. There is an important lesson to be learned from all this."
"I agree with you."
"Of course, it's unfortunate that the tree was cut down. That tree was the Tree of Life, and it would have made us immune to death. Now we welcome death with open arms, especially when we are old. But the father of our country knew his duty. He could not do otherwise. That is the meaning of the phrase 'Life is a bowl of cherries.' If the tree had remained standing, we would have had eternal life."
"Yes I see what you mean."
"I have many such ideas in my head. My mind never stops. You were always a clever boy, Peter, and I'm glad you understand."
"I can follow you perfectly."
"A father must always teach his son the lessons he has learned. In that way knowledge is passed down from generation to generation, and we grow wise."
"I won't forget what you've told me."
"I'll be able to die happily now, Peter."
"I'm glad."
"But you musn't forget anything."
"I won't, father. I promise."
The next morning Quinn was in front of the hotel at his usual time. The weather had finally changed. After two weeks of resplendent skies, a drizzle now fell on New York, and the streets were filled with the sound of wet, moving tires. For an hour Quinn sat on the bench, protecting himself with a black umbrella, thinking Stillman would appear at any moment. He worked his way through his roll and coffee, read the account of the Mets' Sunday loss, and still there was no sign of the old man. Patience, he said to himself, and began to tackle the rest of the paper. Forty minutes passed. He reached the financial section and was about to read an analysis of a corporate merger when the rain suddenly intensified. Reluctantly, he got up from his bench and removed himself to a doorway across the street from the hotel. He stood there in his clammy shoes for an hour and a half. Was Stillman sick? he wondered. Quinn tried to imagine him lying in his bed, sweating out a fever. Perhaps the old man had died during the night and his body had not yet been discovered. Such things happened, he told himself.
Today was to have been the crucial day, and Quinn had made elaborate and meticulous plans for it. Now his calculations were for naught. It disturbed him that he had not taken this contingency into account.
Still, he hesitated. He stood there under his umbrella, watching the rain slide off it in small, fine drops. By eleven o'clock he had begun to formulate a decision. Half an hour later he crossed the street, walked forty paces down the block, and entered Stillman's hotel. The place stank of cockroach repellant and dead cigarettes. A few of the tenants, with nowhere to go in the rain, were sitting in the lobby, sprawled out on orange plastic chairs. The place seemed blank, a hell of stale thoughts.
A large black man sitting behind the front desk with his sleeves rolled up. One elbow was on the counter, and his head was propped in his open hand. With his other hand he turned the pages of a tabloid newspaper, barely pausing to read the words. He looked bored enough to have been there all his life.
"I'd like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said.
The man looked up at him slowly, as if wishing him to disappear.
"I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said again.
"No guests here," said the man. "We call them residents."
"For one of your residents, then. I'd like to leave a message."
"And just who might that be, bub?"
"Stillman. Peter Stillman."
The man pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head. "Nope. Can't recall anyone by that name."
"Don't you have a register?"
"Yeah, we've got a book. But it's in the safe."
"The safe? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the book, bub. The boss likes to keep it locked up in the safe."
"I don't suppose you know the combination?"
"Sorry. The boss is the only one."
Quinn sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He slapped it on the counter and kept his hand on top of it.
"I don't suppose you happen to have a copy of the book, do you?" he asked.
"Maybe," said the man. "I'll have to look in my office."
The man lifted up the newspaper, which was lying open on the counter. Under it was the register.
"A lucky break," said Quinn, releasing his hand from the money.
"Yeah, I guess today's my day," answered the man, sliding the bill along the surface of the counter, whisking it over the edge, and putting it in his pocket. "What did you say your friend's name was again?"
"Stillman. An old man with white hair."
"The gent in the overcoat?"
"That's right."
"We call him the Professor."
"That's the man. Do you have a room number? He checked in about two weeks ago."
The clerk opened the register, turned the pages, and ran his finger down the column of names and numbers. "Stillman," he said. "Room 303. He's not here anymore."
"What?"
"He checked out."
"What are you talking about?"
"Listen, bub, I'm only telling you what it says here. Stillman checked out last night. He's gone."
"That's the craziest thing I ever heard."
"I don't care what it is. It's all down here in black and white. "
"Did he give a forwarding address?"
"Are you kidding?"
"What time did he leave?"
"Have to ask Louie, the night man. He comes on at eight."
"Can I see the room?"
"Sorry. I rented it myself this morning. The guy's up there asleep. "
"What did he look like?"
"For five bucks you've got a lot of questions."
"Forget it," said Quinn, waving his hand desperately. "It doesn't matter. "
He walked back to his apartment in a downpour, getting drenched in spite of his umbrella. So much for functions, he said to himself So much for the meaning of words. He threw the umbrella onto the floor of his living room in disgust. Then he took off his jacket and flung it against the wall. Water splattered everywhere.
He called Virginia Stillman, too embarrassed to think of doing anything else. At the moment she answered, he nearly hung up the phone.
"I lost him," he said.
"Are you sure?"
"He checked out of his room last night. I don't know where he is."
"I'm scared, Paul."
"Have you heard from him?"
"I don't know. I think so, but I'm not sure."
"What does that mean?"
"Peter answered the phone this morning while I was taking my bath. He won't tell me who it was. He went into his room, closed the shades, and refuses to speak."
"But he's done that before."
"Yes. That's why I'm not sure. But it hasn't happened in a long time."
"It sounds bad."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Don't worry. I have a few ideas. I'll get to work on them right away."
"How will I reach you?"
"I'll call you every two hours, no matter where I am."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise."
"I'm so scared, I can't stand it."
"It's all my fault. I made a stupid mistake and I'm sorry."
"No, I don't blame you. No one can watch a person twenty-four hours a day. It's impossible. You'd have to be inside his skin. "
"That's just the trouble. I thought I was."
"It's not too late now, is it?"
"No. There's still plenty of time. I don't want you to worry."
"I'll try not to."
"Good. I'll be in touch."
"Every two hours?"
"Every two hours."
He had finessed the conversation rather nicely. In spite of everything, he had managed to keep Virginia Stillman calm. He found it hard to believe, but she still seemed to trust him. Not that it would be of any help. For the fact was, he had lied to her. He did not have several ideas. He did not have even one.