nothing. Then something
stirred by one of the windows, gray and vague, like a sheet of moving
fog.

As he watched, shrinking back against the wall, the grayness deepened,
took the form of a man. And out of that mistiness a face was etched, a
face that had no single line of humor in it, a bleak face with the fire
of anger in the eyes.

"Manning!" shrieked Wilson. "Manning!" He wheeled and sprinted for the
door, but the gray figure moved, too ... incredibly fast, as if it were
wind-blown vapor, and barred his path to the door.

"Why are you running away?" Manning's voice mocked. "Certainly you
aren't afraid of me."

"Look," Wilson whimpered, "I didn't think of what it meant. I just was
tired of working the way Page made me work. Tired of the little salary I
got. I wanted money. I was hungry for money."

"So you sold us out," said Manning.

"No," cried Wilson, "I didn't think of it that way. I didn't stop to
think."

"Think now, then," said Manning gravely. "Think of this. No matter where
you are, no matter where you go, no matter what you do, I'll always be
watching you, I'll never let you rest. I'll never give you a minute's
peace."

"Please," pleaded Wilson. "Please, go away and leave me. I'll give you
back the money ... there's some of it left."

"You sold out for twenty thousand," said Manning. "You could have gotten
twenty million. Chambers would have paid that much to know what you
could tell him, because it was worth twenty billion."

Wilson's breath was coming in panting gasps. He dropped his coat and
backed away. The back of his knees collided with a chair and he folded
up, sat down heavily, still staring at the gray mistiness that was a
man.

"Think of that, Wilson," Manning went on sneeringly. "You could have
been a millionaire. Maybe even a billionaire. You could have had all the
fine things these other people have. But you only got twenty thousand."

"What can I do?" begged Wilson.

The misty face split in a sardonic grin.

"I don't believe there's anything left for you to do."

Before Wilson's eyes the face dissolved, lost its lines, seemed to melt
away. Only streaming, swirling mist, then a slight refraction in the air
and then nothing.

Slowly Wilson rose to his feet, reached for the bottle of whiskey on the
table. His hand shook so that the liquor splashed. When he raised the
glass to his mouth, his still-shaking hand poured half the drink over
his white shirt front.

_CHAPT