hat. He couldn't see a newspaper-man refusing to
make a story of it, if there was any other news about him to which
they could tie the burning of his apartment. Apparently it was not the
police who were after him, and he hadn't been guilty of anything so
ordinary as murder.

* * * * *

Outside the window, a sudden scream sounded, and he jerked from the
chair, reaching the door before he realized it was only a cat on the
prowl. He shuddered, his old hatred of cats coming to the surface. For
a minute, he thought of shutting the window. But he couldn't cut off
his chance to retreat through the garbage-littered back-yard.

He returned to his search, beginning an inventory of the few
belongings that had been in his pocket. There was a notebook, and he
scanned it rapidly. A few pages were missing, and most were blank.
There was only a shopping list. That puzzled him for a minute--he
couldn't believe he'd taken to using lipstick as well as cigarettes,
though both were listed in his handwriting. The notebook contained
nothing else.

He stuffed it back into his pockets, along with his keyring. There
were more keys than he'd expected, some of which were strange to him,
but none held any mark that would identify them. He put a few pennies
into another pocket--his entire wealth, now, in a world where no more
money would be available to him. He grimaced, dropping a comb into the
same pocket.

Then there was only his wallet left. His identification card was
there, unchanged. Behind it, where his wife's picture had always been,
there was only a folded clipping. He drew it out, hoping for a clew.
It was only an announcement of people killed in an airplane crash--and
among those found dead was Mrs. Wilbur Hawkes, of New York. It seemed
that Irma had never reached Reno for the divorce.

He tried to feel some sorrow at that, but time must have healed
whatever hurt there had been, even though he couldn't remember. She
had hated him ever since she'd found that he really wasn't willing to
please his father by becoming another of the vice-presidents in the
old man's bank, with an unearned but fancy salary. He'd preferred
teaching mathematics and dabbling with a bit of research into the
probable value of the ESP work being done at Duke University. He'd
explained why he hated banking; Irma had made it clear that she really
needed the mink coat no assistant professor could afford. It had been
stalemate--a b