onfident the
book will sell exceptionally well."

"It is a lot of money," Mrs. Grant said. "But I'm so confused. I wish I
knew what to do."

Browne leaned forward. "Your husband was a great man. I feel it as an
obligation on my part to make public his last work."

Mrs. Grant nodded slowly. "You may be right. I hadn't thought of it that
way."

"And you can undoubtedly use the money," Browne added. "There'll be
more. How much more depends on how the book sells. It may be a steady
income for a few years."

"All right," Mrs. Grant said, making up her mind. "I'll let you publish
it."

"Fine!" Mr. Browne said heartily. "I felt you would. And any time you
need money just call me."

* * * * *

Fred's birthday came in February. He was seventeen now, and the
knowledge filled him with dismay. It had been months since his father
had vanished.

Or _had_ his father vanished? Maybe his memory of those people vanishing
was as wrong as his memory of which way his door opened! To check it he
spent an afternoon in a newspaper office searching back papers until he
found the accounts. He read them all carefully. They were as he
remembered them.

And in him, slowly, grew the realization that he was going to use
someone. He was going to choose someone and try to make that person
disappear. More, he knew that that person was going to be Curt Gaard. He
decided against calling and making an appointment. He would go to the
man's office and put over the sixteen-year-old act.

With a great deal of shyness he confided to the receptionist that Curt
was a very special friend of his mother's. She talked into the
inter-office phone, did a lot of listening and yessing. Finally she told
Fred that Dr. Gaard wanted him to wait a few moments. Then she dialed
an outside number. Fred listened to the clicks and knew it was his home
phone. The psychiatrist was going to talk to his mother. He hadn't
wanted that, but it wouldn't matter materially.

The wait lasted almost half an hour. Then, with heart pounding, Fred was
walking toward the dark walnut door to the inner office. Inside, he
caught a comprehensive glimpse of the rumored couch, luxurious desk and
chairs, thick expensive rug, and an assortment of floor-lamps and oil
paintings. Then the psychiatrist was upon him, heartily welcoming him.

There were time-marking conversational exchanges about school, the hot
rod, and life in general. There was the pause whil