“Yes, of course.”

“Doesn’t that suggest anything, Jill?”

“Uh . . . Jubal, I’m so worried that I’m not thinking straight. What should it suggest?”

“Quit the breast-beating; it wouldn’t have suggested anything to me, either. But the pro who was working for me is a very sneaky character; he arrived at Paoli with a convincing statprint made from the photograph that was taken under Kilgallen’s nose—and with business cards and credentials that made it appear that he himself was ‘Osbert Kilgallen,’ the addressee. Then, with his fatherly manner and sincere face, he hornswoggled a young lady employee of I.T.&T. into telling him things which, under the privacy amendment to the Constitution, she should have divulged only under court order—very sad. Anyhow, she did remember receiving that message for file and processing. Ordinarily she wouldn’t remember one message out of hundreds—they go in her ears and out her fingertips and are gone, save for the filed microprint. But, luckily, this young lady is one of Ben’s faithful fans; she reads his ‘Crow’s Nest’ column every night—a hideous vice.” Jubal blinked his eyes thoughtfully at the horizon. “Front!”

Anne appeared, dripping. “Remind me,” Jubal said to her, “to write a popular article on the compulsive reading of news. The theme will be that most neuroses and some psychoses can be traced to the unnecessary and unhealthy habit of daily wallowing in the troubles and sins of five billion strangers. The title is ‘Gossip Unlimited’—no, make that ‘Gossip Gone Wild.’”

“Boss, you’re getting morbid.”

“Not me. But everybody else is. See that I write it some time next week. Now vanish; I’m busy.” He turned back to Gillian. “She noticed Ben’s name, so she remembered the message—quite thrilled about it, because it let her speak to one of her heroes . . . and was irked, I gather, because Ben hadn’t paid for vision as well as voice. Oh, she remembers it . . . and she remembers, too, that the service was paid for by cash from a public booth—in Washington.”

“‘In Washington’?” repeated Jill. “But why would Ben call from—”

“Of course, of course!” Jubal agreed pettishly. “If he’s at a public phone booth anywhere in Washington, he can have both voice and vision direct to his office, face to face with his assistant, cheaper, easier, and quicker than he could phone a stat message to be sent back to Washington from a point nearly two hundred miles away. It doesn’t make sense. Or, rather, it makes just one kind of sense. Hanky-panky. Ben is as used to hanky-panky as a bride is to kisses. He didn’t get to be one of the best winchells in the business through playing his cards face up.”

“Ben is not a winchell! He’s a lippmann!”

“Sorry, I’m color-blind in that range. Keep quiet. He might have believed that his phone was tapped but his statprinter was not. Or he might have suspected that both were tapped—and I’ve no doubt they are, by now, if not then—and that he could use this round-about relay to convince whoever was tapping him that he really was away from Washington and would not be back for several days.” Jubal frowned. “In the latter case we would be doing him no favor by finding him. We might be endangering his life.”

“Jubal! No!”

“Jubal, yes,” he answered wearily. “That boy skates close to the edge, he always has. He’s utterly fearless and that’s how he’s made his reputation. But the rabbit is never more than two jumps ahead of the coyote . . . and this time maybe one jump. Or none. Jill, Ben has never tackled a more dangerous assignment than this. If he has disappeared voluntarily—and he may have—do you want to risk stirring things up by bumbling around in your amateur way, calling attention to the fact that he has dropped out of sight? Kilgallen still has him covered, as Ben’s column has appeared every day. I don’t ordinarily read it—but I’ve made it my business to know, this time.”

“Canned columns! Mr. Kilgallen told me so.”

“Of course. Some of Ben’s perennial series on corrupt campaign funds. That’s a subject as safe as being in favor of Christmas. Maybe they’re kept on file for such emergencies—or perhaps Kilgallen is writing them. In any case, Ben Caxton, the ever-ready Advocate of the Peepul, is still officially on his usual soap box. Perhaps he planned it that way, my dear—because he found himself in such danger that he did not dare get in touch even with you. Well?”

Gillian glanced fearfully around her—at a scene almost unbearably peaceful, bucolic, and beautiful—then covered her face with her hands. “Jubal . . . I don’t know what to do!”