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said.
    â€œDon’ want any policeman,” the voice said. The voice was very fuzzy. Since it did not clear, Fox decided it was fuzzy with drink.
    â€œI want to talk to you, Mr. Wilmot,” Fox said. “It is Mr. Wilmot?”
    â€œDon’ wanta talk to you ,” the voice told him, fuzzier than before.
    â€œYou are Mr. Wilmot?”
    â€œSo I’m Mr. Wilmot. Go away.”
    â€œAn—an object seems to have fallen,” Fox said. “Apparently from your terrace.”
    â€œKeep it,” the voice said. “Jus’ keep it, captain.”
    â€œListen,” Fox said. “Open the door, will you?” He tried the knob. The knob did not turn.
    â€œCastle,” the fuzzy voice said. “Home is my castle. Talk about it in the morning.”
    The trouble, Fox thought, was that Mr. Wilmot had something there, had a good deal there. He had, presumably, dropped a dummy from his terrace to the sidewalk. Listening to the voice, this seemed to Fox quite likely. He might have killed someone. But—he had not killed anyone. He had violated a city ordinance. But his penthouse remained his castle, short of a warrant for search, or a warrant for arrest. Fox could, of course, stick a summons under the door.
    â€œYou might have killed somebody,” Fox said, to the door.
    â€œCan’ hear you.”
    â€œKilled somebody,” Fox repeated.
    â€œDidn’t hit anybody,” the fuzzy voice said. “Looked. Smashed the dummy, s’all.”
    â€œSo you admit—”
    â€œGo away,” the voice said. “Wanna get some sleep. Talk about it in the morning. Accident, anyway. Damned thing cost money.”
    â€œYou do admit—”
    â€œPushed it out on the terrace. Pushed it too far, s’all. Coulda happened to anybody.”
    â€œI’d still like—”
    â€œMorning, keep telling you. Gotta make something of it, come ’round in the morning. Hear me?”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œThat’s a man,” the voice said. “Morning, eh? Fix it all up in the morning. Pay the fine. Whatever it is. Gotta sleep now.”
    â€œWell,” Fox said again.
    It was not satisfactory. It left the report messy. But—if Wilmot did not want him in, he was not going to get in. Wilmot was, in any case, clearly in no condition to talk coherently. He probably had, further, told all he could ever remember—he had pushed the dummy onto the terrace; he had pushed it too far. It was all extremely silly.
    â€œSomebody’ll be around for a statement in the morning,” Fox told the door.
    There was no answer. It occurred to Fox that Wilmot had already gone back to bed. Fox went down the stairs, and down in the elevator. Anyway, somebody else would see Wilmot in the morning. Fox would be in bed himself.

III
    Thursday, 10 A.M. to 11:35 A.M.
    This would be the last time. That Martha Evitts promised herself, and again pressed the bell-push, heard again the melodious chimes from within. She had let it drift too long, and that was something she too often did. It was because there is a kind of violence about decision, and a violence which, at any given moment, usually seems excessive to the occasion. Such excessive violence becomes melodrama, and demonstrates that one has taken oneself too seriously, and so one becomes ridiculous, at any rate in one’s own eyes. But now, quite simply, she had had enough.
    There would be no need to say why, so to reveal how seriously the whole ridiculous business had affected her—so to reveal that she could not, actually, “take a joke.” There was no reason to let him know that she knew what he had been up to—no reason to take an attitude about it, and lay herself open again to being laughed at. Or even, which was worse, pitied. She had been pitied last night and, standing alone before an unopening door, she flushed softly as she remembered. There had been sympathy, which was pity,