regory refused.

"No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper."

The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for a bad
night and a bad day.

"All right," he said affably. "I'll see you at the train. I'll walk
about a bit."

He turned and started back up the street again, walking idly. His
chagrin was very real. He hated to be fooled, and fooled he had been.
Gregory was not the only one who had lost a night's sleep. Then,
unexpectedly, he was hailed from the curbstone, and he saw with
amazement that it was Dick Livingstone.

"Take you anywhere?" Dick asked. "How's the headache?"

"Better, thanks." Bassett stared at him. "No, I'm just walking around
until train-time. Are you starting out or going home, at this hour?"

"Going home. Well, glad the head's better."

He drove on, leaving the reporter gazing after him. So Gregory had
been lying. He hadn't seen this chap at all. Then why--? He walked
on, turning this new phase of the situation over in his mind. Why
this elaborate fiction, if Gregory had merely gone in, waited for ten
minutes, and come out again?

It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't logical. Something had happened inside
the house to convince Gregory that he was right. He had seen somebody,
or something. He hadn't needed to lie. He could have said frankly
that he had seen no one. But no, he had built up a fabric carefully
calculated to throw Bassett off the scent.

He saw Dick stop in front of the house, get out and enter. And coming
to a decision, he followed him and rang the doorbell. For a long time no
one answered. Then the maid of the afternoon opened the door, her eyes
red with crying, and looked at him with hostility.

"Doctor Richard Livingstone?"

"You can't see him."

"It's important."

"Well, you can't see him. Doctor David has just had a stroke. He's in
the office now, on the floor."

She closed the door on him, and he turned and went away. It was all
clear to him; Gregory had seen, not Clark, but the older man; had told
him and gone away. And under the shock the older man had collapsed. That
was sad. It was very sad. But it was also extremely convincing.

He sat up late that night again, running over the entries in his
notebook. The old story, as he pieced it out, ran like this:

It had been twelve years ago, when, according to the old files,
Clark had financed Beverly Carlysle's first starring venture. He had,
apparently, started out in the beg