e light from the dash lay palely upon her
face, softening its austerity. "I don't get this at all," Philip said.
"From your letter I assumed you had two or three places you wanted me to
sell, but not a whole town. There must have been at least a thousand
people living here, and a thousand people just don't pack up and move
out all at once." When she volunteered no explanation, he added, "Where
did they move to?"

"To Pfleugersville. I know you've never heard of it, so save the
observation." Then, "Do you have any identification?" she asked.

He gave her his driver's license, his business card and the letter she
had written him. After glancing at them, she handed them back. She
appeared to be undecided about something. "Why don't you let me stay at
the hotel?" he suggested. "You must have the key if it's one of the
places I'm supposed to appraise."

She shook her head. "I have the key, but there's not a stick of
furniture in the place. We had a village auction last week and got rid
of everything that we didn't plan on taking with us." She sighed. "Well,
there's nothing for it, I guess. The nearest motel is thirty miles away,
so I'll have to put you up at my house. I have a few articles of
furniture left--wedding gifts, mostly, that I was too sentimental to
part with." She got into the car. "Come on, Zarathustra."

Zarathustra clambered in, leaped across her lap and sat down between
them. Philip pulled away from the curb. "That's an odd name for a dog,"
he said.

"I know. I guess the reason I gave it to him is because he puts me in
mind of a little old man sometimes."

"But the original Zarathustra isn't noted for his longevity."

"Perhaps another association was at work then. Turn right at the next
corner."

A lonely light burned in one of number 23 Locust Street's three front
windows. Its source, however, was not an incandescent bulb, but the
mantle of a gasoline lantern. "The village power-supply was shut off
yesterday," Judith Darrow explained, pumping the lantern into renewed
brightness. She glanced at him sideways. "Did you have dinner?"

"As a matter of fact--no. But please don't--"

"Bother? I couldn't if I wanted to. My larder is on its last legs. But
sit down, and I'll make you some sandwiches. I'll make a pot of coffee
too--the gas hasn't been turned off yet."

* * * * *

The living room had precisely three articles of furniture to its
name--two armchairs and a coff