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appointments for the rest of the day . . . No . . . No one . . . I don’t care; cancel them.”
    Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long after dark he held it, still unlighted.

    Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet’s luncheon spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.
    Somewhat later he let a few drops of fiori d’Alpini roll around his tongue and trickle down his throat. The heavy fragrant syrup warmed his mouth, and reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed. It had been a good meal, an exquisite meal and had justified the exotic liqueur. His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hall and the dining room door was pushed open.
    “Madonna! Non si puo entrare! The Master is eating!”
    “Never mind, Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You may go.” Pinero faced the surly faced spokesman of the intruders. “You have business with me, yes?”
    “You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense.”
    “And so?”
    The caller did not answer at once. A smaller dapper individual moved out from behind him and faced Pinero.

    “We might as well begin.” The chairman of the committee placed a key in the lock-box and opened it. “Wenzell, will you help me pick out today’s envelopes?” He was interrupted by a touch on his arm.
    “Dr. Baird, you are wanted on the telephone.”
    “Very well. Bring the instrument here.”
    When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. “Hello . . . Yes, speaking . . . What? . . . No, we have heard nothing . . . Destroyed the machine, you say . . . Dead! How? . . . No! No statement. None at all . . . Call me later . . .”
    He slammed the instrument down and pushed it from him.
    “What’s up?—Who’s dead now?”
    Baird held up one hand. “Quiet, gentlemen, please! Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home.”
    “Murdered?”
    “That isn’t all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed his apparatus.”
    No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.
    Finally one spoke up. “Get it out.”
    “Get what out?”
    “Pinero’s envelope. It’s in there, too. I’ve seen it.”
    Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and scanned it.
    “Well? Out with it!”
    “One-thirteen p.m.—today.”
    They took this in silence.
    Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching for the lock-box. Baird interposed a hand.
    “What do you want?”
    “My prediction—it’s in there—we’re all in there.”
    “Yes, yes. We’re all in here. Let’s have them.”
    Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His hand shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.
    “You’re right, of course,” he said.
    “Bring me that wastebasket.” Baird’s voice was low and strained but steady.
    He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.
    “I’m afraid I’ve ruined this tabletop.”

“Let There Be Light”

    Archibald Douglas, Sc.D., Ph.D., B.S., read the telegram with unconcealed annoyance.
    “ARRIVING CITY LATE TODAY STOP DESIRE