His son watched until he got as far as the hall, almost out of sight, then hurried after. "Dad. Dad, wait". He caught up with the old man in the living room. Old man Arthur had put down the suitcase to open the front door. "Just this one favor, Dad. Just don't tell Ferguson that crazy opinion of yours". "Why not"? The old man gave the room a stare in leaving; under the scraggly brows the pale old eyes burned with a bitter memory. "It's the truth". "The Bartlett girl was killed by Mr. Dronk's son. Rossi and Ferguson have been across the street, talking to the kid. They've found some sort of new evidence, a bundle of clothes or something, and it must link the kid even stronger to the crime. Why won't you accept facts? The two kids were together a lot, they were having some kind of teen-age affair -- God knows how far that had gone -- and the kid's crippled. He limps, and the man who hit you and took the cane, he limped. My God, how much more do you want"? His father looked him over closely. "You sound like an old woman. You should have gone to work today, 'stead of sneaking around spying on the Dronk house". "Now, see here" -- "The trouble with you", old man Arthur began, and then checked himself. Young Mrs. Arthur had opened the oven and there was a drifting odor of hot biscuits. The old man opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. "Isn't enough time to go into it", he finished, and slammed the door in his son's face. Mrs. Holden turned from the window draperies. "They found something else up there", she said half-aloud to the empty room. "They took it away, overalls or something". She walked restlessly across the room, then back to the windows. "Now they've gone, they didn't come back, and they didn't arrest that Dronk boy". She stood frowning and chewing her lip. She was wearing a brown cotton dress, cut across the hips in a way that was supposed to make her look slimmer, a yoke set into the skirt and flaring pleats below. She smoothed the skirt, sat down, then stood up and went back to the windows. "Why on earth did I send him off to work? There was excuse enough to keep him home that young Mr. Arthur's still over there". With sudden energy, she went to the phone and rang Holden's office and asked for him. "I think you had better come home". "Mae, we're so busy. Mr. Crosson's been on everybody's neck, an order he expected didn't come through and he's" -- "I don't care. I want you here. I'm all alone and certain things are going on that look very ominous. I need someone to go out and find out what's happening". "But I couldn't do that, even if I were home"! His voice grew high and trembling. "I can't be underfoot every time those cops turn around! They'll they'll think I did something". He couldn't see the grin that split her mouth; the teeth that shone into the phone were like a shark's. "You'll just have to risk it. You can't wander along in the dark, can you? I'd think that you even more than I would be wondering what they're up to. They found some clothes", she tossed in. "What"? Deliberately, she ignored the yelp. "Also, that Mr. Ferguson was here. I guess he wants to ask you some questions. I stalled him off. He doesn't expect you until five". "Then I'd better wait until five". "No-o-o. Come home right away". She slapped the receiver into its holder and stepped away. Her eyes were bright with anticipation. In his office, Mr. Holden replaced the phone slowly. He rose from his chair. He had to cough then; he went to the window and choked there with the fresh breeze on his face. He got his hat out of the closet. For a moment he thought of going into Crosson's office to explain that he had to leave, but there was now such a pain in his chest, such a pounding in his head, that he decided to let it go. He passed the receptionist in the outer office, muttering, "I've got to go out for a little while". Let her call Crosson if she wanted to, let Crosson raise the roof or even can him, he didn't care. He got into the car. Putting the key into the switch, pressing the accelerator with his foot, putting the car into reverse, seemed vast endeavors almost beyond the ability of his shaking body. Once out in the street, the traffic was a gadfly maze in which he wandered stricken. When he turned into the highway that led to the outskirts of the city and then rose toward home, he had to pull over to the curb and wait for a few minutes, sucking in air and squinting and blinking his eyes to clear them of tears. What on earth was in Mae's mind, that she wanted him up there spying on what the cops were doing? What did she think he could do? He tried to ignore what his own common sense told him, but it wasn't possible; her motives were too blatant. She wanted him to get into trouble. She wanted the police to notice him, suspect him. She was going to keep on scheming, poking, prodding, suggesting, and dictating until the cops got up enough interest in him to go back to their old neighborhood and ask questions. And he knew in that moment, with a cold sinking of despair, a dying of old hopes, that Mae had spread some kind of word there among the neighbors. Nothing bald, open; but enough. They'd have some suspicions to repeat to the police. Though his inner thoughts cringed at it, he forced himself to think back, recreating the scene in which Mae claimed to have caught him molesting the child. It hadn't amounted to anything. There had been nothing evil or dirty in his intentions. A second scene flashed before his mind, the interior of the garage at the new house and the young Bartlett girl turning startled to meet him, the dim dark and the sudden confusion and fear and then the brightness as Mae had clicked on the light. Suppose the cops somehow got hold of that? Well, it hadn't been what it seemed, he'd had no idea the girl was in there. He hadn't touched her. And when he came to examine the scene, there was a certain staginess to it, it had the smell of planning, and a swift suspicion darted into his mind. Too monstrous, of course. Mae wouldn't have plotted a thing like that. It was just that little accidents played into her hands. Like this murder. He leaned on the wheel, clutching it, staring into the sunlight, and tried to bring order into his thoughts. He felt light-headed and sick. There was no use wandering off into a territory of utter nightmare. Mae was his wife. She was married to him for better or for worse. She wouldn't be wilfully planning his destruction. But she was. She was. Even as the conviction of truth roared through him, shattering his last hope of safety, he was reaching to release the hand brake, to head up the road for home, doing her bidding. He drove, and the road wobbled, familiar scenes crept past on either side. He came to a stretch of old orange groves, the trees dead, some of them uprooted, and then there was an outlying shopping area, and tract houses. He had the feeling that he should abandon the car and run off somewhere to hide. But he couldn't imagine where. There was really no place to go, finally, except home to Mae. At the gate he slowed, looking around. Cooper was beside his car, on the curb at the right, just standing there morosely; he didn't even look up. Behind him on the steps of the little office sat old man Arthur; he was straight, something angry in his attitude, as if he might be waiting to report something. Holden stepped on the gas. A new idea drifted in from nowhere. He could go to the police. He could tell them his fears of being involved, he could explain what had happened in the old neighborhood and how Mae had misunderstood and how she had held it over him -- the scene was complete in his mind at the moment, even to his own jerkings and snivelings, and Ferguson's silent patience. He could throw himself on the mercy of the Police Department. It wasn't what Mae would want him to do, though. He was sure of this. Once he had abandoned himself to the very worst, once he had quieted all the dragons of worry and suspense, there wouldn't be very much for Mae to do. At that moment, Holden almost slammed on the brakes to go back to Cooper and ask if Ferguson was about. It would be such a relief. What was that old sign, supposed to be painted over a door somewhere, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here? Why, Holden said to himself, surprised at his own sudden insight, I'll bet some of those people who enter are just as happy as can be. They've worried, they've lain awake nights, they've shook at the slightest footstep, they've pictured their own destruction, and now it's all over and they can give up. Sure, they're giving up hope. Hand in hand with hope went things like terror and apprehension. Good-bye. Holden waved a hand at the empty street. Glad to see you go. He drove into the paved space before the garage and got out, slamming the car door. He looked up and down the street. If Ferguson's car had been in sight, Holden would have walked directly to it. He went to the front door and opened it and looked in. Mae entered the room from the hallway to the kitchen. She had a cup of something steaming, coffee perhaps, in one hand, a fresh piece of toast in the other. She stood there, watching Holden come in, and she put the piece of toast in her mouth and bit off one corner with a huge chomp of her white teeth. "Mae" -- "I've been thinking", she said, swallowing the toast. "Didn't you have an old pair of painting overalls in the garage? You used them that time you painted the porch at our other house. And then you wiped up some grease". She had caught him off guard, no preparation, nothing certain but that ahead lay some kind of disaster. "No. Wait a minute. What do you" -- "I've been looking for them, and they're gone. I'm sure they were in the garage up until a couple of days ago. Or even yesterday. You used to paint in them, and then you just took them for rags. The police have them now". "I don't remember any overalls at all". "They were all faded. Worn through at the knees". She stood sipping and chewing and watching. "Green paint, wasn't it? Well, I'm not sure of the color. But you had them". "Mae, sit down. Put down the cup of coffee. Tell me what this is all about". She shook her head. She took another bite of toast. Holden noticed almost absently how she chewed, how the whole side of her cheek moved, a slab of fat that extended down into her neck. "My goodness, you ought to remember if I do. You're going to have to go to the police and explain what happened. Tell them the truth or something before they come here". A seeping coldness entered Holden's being; his nerves seemed frost-bitten down to the tips of his tingling fingers and his spine felt stiff and glass-like, liable to break like an icicle at any moment. "I've never owned any painting overalls.