But
this feeling of wholesomeness--the little swarms of students trooping
back to the dormitories or over to the campus soda fountain, the file
of girls in white bound for a tennis lesson, the friendly smiles and
nods, the way his own steps fell so easily and gratefully into the old
familiar paths--almost for a moment he wondered if everything else were
not some crazy dream. It came to him almost with a shock that things
were outwardly as normal as they had ever been, that only with respect
to himself had they changed. "Don't fool yourself," the voice inside told him. "Some of those
laughing girls are already infected. Their very respectable mammas
have given them delicate hints. Don't be too sure you know what
they're thinking while they sip their cokes or chatter about their boy
friends." But there was much to be done this afternoon, and he had no right to
waste a second. He turned into Morton and quickly mounted the stairs. His capacity for surprise was not yet exhausted, however, as he
realized when he saw a group of students emerging from the classroom
at the other end of the third-floor corridor, after having waited the
usual ten minutes for him to appear. That was right--he had classes,
and committee meetings, and appointments. He slipped around the bend in
the corridor before he was noticed. Taking suitable precautions, he entered his office. Nothing seemed to
have been disturbed, but he was careful in his movements and on the
alert for unfamiliar objects. He did not put his hand into any drawer
without closely inspecting it first. One letter in the little pile of accumulated mail was important. It was
from Pollard's office, requesting him to appear before a meeting of the
trustees later this week. He smiled with grim satisfaction. His career
was still skidding downhill. Hempnell still had its fangs. He methodically removed certain sections from his files, stuffed his
brief case full and made a package of the remainder. Then he took from his pocket a small hard object, and looked at it
reflectively. It was made of lucite, and its shape was that of an egg. Sealed inside
the thick, transparent shell were tiny bits of metal and fiber. It was
the chief trophy of his stay in New York. His friend in industrial
chemistry had been very mystified. But here it was. Placed in the Sawtelle home, it ought to constitute the terminal of a
kind of circuit and clear the way for the operations he intended to
begin tonight, for the recovery of that which Evelyn Sawtelle had taken
and was holding captive. It remained to place it. After a last glance around, during which he noted that the Estrey
dragon had not been restored to whatever was its original position on
the roof, he started downstairs. Outside he met Mrs. Gunnison. This was something he had not anticipated with sufficient vividness. He
was acutely conscious of the way his arms were encumbered by the bulky
notes. For a moment he did not seem able to see her clearly. "Lucky I found you," she began immediately. "Harold's been trying every
which way to get in touch with you. Where have you been?" Suddenly she registered on him as her old, blunt, sloppy self. With a
sense of mingled relief and frustration, he realized that the warfare
in which he was engaged was a strictly undercover affair, and that
outwardly all relationships were the same as ever. He found himself
explaining how Tansy and he, weekending with friends out in the
country, had gotten a touch of food poisoning, and how his message to
Hempnell must have gone astray. This explanation was intended merely
for general consumption. Routine excuses were still necessary, and
this one had the added advantage of providing a reason for Tansy's
appearance, if anyone should see her, and it would enable him to plead
a recurrence of the attack as an excuse for neglecting his academic
duties. He did not expect Mrs. Gunnison to believe it, but he ought to tell it
to her just to be consistent. She accepted the story without comment, offered her sympathies, and
went on to say, "But be sure and get in touch with Harold. I believe
it has to do with that meeting of the trustees you've been asked to
attend. You know, Harold thinks a great deal of you. Good-by." Odd, but at the last moment he fancied he caught a note of genuine
friendliness, a strange little look, as if she was appealing to him to
do something. Could he possibly be wrong in his estimation of her? *       *       *       *       *

But there was work to do. Off campus, he hurried down a quiet side
street to where his car was parked. With hardly a sidewise glance at
the motionless figure in the front seat, he stepped in and drove to
Sawtelle's. The house was bigger than they needed, and the front lawn was very
formal. But the grass was yellow in patches, and the soldierlike rows
of flowers looked neglected. "Wait here," he said. "Don't get out of the car under any
circumstances." To his surprise, Hervey met him at the door. There were circles under
Hervey's always-worried eyes, and his fidgetiness was more than usually
apparent. "I'm so glad you've come," he said, pulling Norman inside. "I don't
know what I'm going to do with all these departmental responsibilities
on my shoulders! Classes having to be dismissed. Stop-gap instructors
to be obtained. And the deadline on next year's catalogue tomorrow! Here, come into my study." And he pushed Norman through a huge living
room, expensively but stiffly furnished, into a dingy, book-lined
cubbyhole with one small window. "I'm almost going out of my mind," he said. "I haven't dared stir out
of the house since Evelyn was attacked Sunday night." "What!" "Haven't you heard?" He stopped and looked at Norman in surprise. Even
here he had been trying to pace up and down, although there was not
room enough. "Why, it was in the papers. Though I wondered why you
didn't come over or call up. I kept trying to get you at your home and
the office, but no one could locate you. Evelyn's been in bed since
Sunday, and she gets hysterical if I even speak of going out of the
house. Just now she's asleep, thank heavens." It was borne in on Norman that Sawtelle was not even aware that he
had been out of town. Hastily he related his trumped-up excuse. He
wanted to get back to what had happened Sunday night. There was an idea
forming at the back of his mind, but it was still nebulous. For the
moment he neglected the real purpose of his visit. "Just my luck!" Sawtelle exclaimed tragically when Norman had finished. "The whole department falling apart the very first week I'm in charge
of it. And young Stackpoole laid up with the 'flu'!" "We'll manage," said Norman. "Sit down and tell me about Evelyn." Unwillingly, Sawtelle cleared a space so he could perch on the
cluttered desk. He groaned audibly when his eyes chanced to light on
papers concerned with urgent business. "It happened about four o'clock Sunday morning," he began, still
aimlessly fiddling with the papers.