olyn,
your daughter."

"Oh," said Mrs. Sagen. It was said in a way that revealed nothing.

"Look," said Lance, impatiently. "You do have a daughter. I've dated
her. So, all right," he waved his hands, "she's been spirited away for
some reason. I still think I've got a right to know why."

"Oh, my!" said Mrs. Sagen, and her hand flew to her face. "You must be
that scout-ship pilot who showed up yesterday. The one who--"

"Yeh, the one everybody figures for psycho. But I'm not, Mrs. Sagen. You
know I'm not." Lance took a deep breath. "Can I come in? I just want
some facts. After all, this crazy farce can't go on forever."

The colonel's wife still looked doubtful, but Lance Cooper had a way of
pressing a point hard when his interests were at stake. He began talking
rapidly and convincingly.

He got in.

* * * * *

The light indoors was better. Lance's eyes squinted, as they adjusted
from the gloom of the porch. Somehow, Mrs. Sagen didn't look quite as he
remembered. Her hair was much darker now; he was sure of that. Maybe she
had dyed it. Yet her features were certainly harder and bonier. More
like a replica of her husband's. And her breath smelled alcoholic. Could
a mere month have made that much difference?

The house had been refurnished too, Lance noticed. The living-room decor
was more severe and functional. And the pictures on the wall were
garish. Not Mrs. Sagen's type, at all.

_Hey, wait a minute!_ he told himself; _speaking of pictures_--his
glance skipped to the far corner of the room. A triptych of photos of
Carolyn had always been on display on the mantelpiece. _They would prove
that--_

Lance's jaw dropped.

The photos had been removed.

"Can I get you anything?" Mrs. Sagen inquired. A little nervously, Lance
thought. "A cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks. I'd rather hear about Carolyn."

"Coffee won't take a minute. I was just making some fresh in the
kitchen."

Lance shrugged. "Well, O.K., if you've already got it ready."

Mrs. Sagen's mouth managed a fleeting smile; then she disappeared
through a swinging door. Lance sat down in a wrought-iron chair. Finding
it not comfortable, he sprang back to his feet and paced the floor.
There sure was something wrong about the colonel's house. Something very
oddly wrong. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Suddenly, his quickened hearing caught the faint murmur of a human
voice. Was it Carolyn? The talk seemed