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messed up the apartment. Was it to cause some suggestion that he’d been abducted? Did Victor want me to call the police? I noticed he’d been careful not to harm his good paintings. The Alex Colville, his pride and joy, hung unmarred, and it was worth several thousand dollars. Or maybe he came back for his special imported cigars. He was a real addict.
    I took Victor’s jewelry box back to his room as an excuse to check the cigars. His humidor, a dark mahogany box that looked like a coffin for a hamster, all lined and insulated, was open and empty. I had been at the door Monday evening, talking to him when he filled it. That supply ought to have lasted at least a week. My heart lifted with relief just before it hardened with anger at his trick.
    What a lot of bother he’d caused! Scared me out of my wits, left the concert goers without their concert, the Roy Thomson manager in a fury, and Eleanor with about fifty pounds of lobster that would be thrown out. But that was Victor all over. Spoiled rotten, a selfish, senile delinquent. He should be turned over somebody’s knee and walloped. And on top of it all, I now had to go out and politely get rid of Sean Bradley, who’d been so helpful all night.
    Sean noticed my relieved expression as soon as I went back to the living room. I could tell by the curious light in his eyes that he knew something had happened in the bedroom and scanned my brain for an explanation that would satisfy him.
    “What is it? What did you find?” he asked eagerly.
    No clever inspiration came to me. “Nothing,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve just been thinking about it, and I’m sure he’s all right. That’s all.”
    “Were you praying?” His voice rose in disbelief on the last word. “You look so—serene.”
    I grasped at this straw. “Yes, I was.” My sober mien dared him to question it, or laugh. He just went on looking. For a minute, I thought a smile was going to break, but I held my own mouth steady as a ruler and stared him down.
    He cleared his throat, looked away once or twice, then screwed up his courage to speak. “I’m not knocking your religion, Cassie, but I still think you ought to get some— uh—worldly help. The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he added with a sideways look to see the effect of this platitude.
    “In that case, Victor should be fine,” I said grimly.
    His lips clamped shut, and when he spoke a minute later, he sounded offended. “I was just trying to help. I take it you don’t plan to let me in on whatever you found in there. I was hoping we could work on this together, but if you want to go it alone, that’s your privilege.” He got up and walked stiffly toward the door.
    I remembered a saying of Samuel Johnson’s that there are people we would like very well to drop, but wouldn’t want to be dropped by. Sean was like that. There was a quality of genuineness in his simplicity that made it important for him to like you. You knew instinctively he wouldn’t like inferior people—phonies. He’d hate Ronald Strathroy. It had something to do with troublesome morality. I knew I was going to stop him.
    He was a nice, kind man. He hadn’t been a bit mad when the concert was cancelled, and he’d done everything he could to help me since that time. Even bribed the bartender at the hotel. When my head was in a whirl, he’d asked all the right questions for me. I took a step after him. “Wait!” He turned back with a light of hopeful interest in his brown eyes.
    “Sean, I’m sorry,” I said, and took a step after him. “The thing is, Victor’s an awful publicity hound. Remember I told you about the capriccio? Maybe that wasn’t the surprise. I think he’s just hiding out to get publicity and pep up the sale of tickets.” Sean looked doubtful and I explained in a little more detail about the sagging ticket sales.
    “Wouldn’t he have let you in on the secret?”
    “Not necessarily. He’s really very