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doorway. The main thing was she had it, not how she got it."
    Cameron nodded understandingly. "That's the chief difference between us, I suppose. The detective works backwards, the physician works forwards."
    "But this wasn't a crime, so your comparison isn't valid."
    Cameron just dropped his eyes for a moment as if to say, "Are you sure?"
    "Can you tell me something about the disease, doctor? In the simplest language, please. I'm not a medical expert. Frankly, I don't think I have ever heard of it before."
    "Yes you have. It's what you fellows call lockjaw. It's transmitted through a break in the skin. Even a scratch or pinprick will do the trick--always providing the virus is present. Which fortunately isn't usually the case, or most of us would be dead. Even a torn hangnail, for instance. Or if the wound was already there previous to going near the source of infection."
    "Any other way? Contact with a person?"
    "No. It's not contagious in that sense. It can't be transmitted from person to person."
    It can, thought Cameron as he got up to go, but I don't mean it in the way you do.

    Garrison came down the stairs in bathrobe, pajama trousers showing under it.
    "Sorry to get you up, Mr. Garrison," Cameron said from the foot of the stairs. "I know it's three in the morning, but I've been chasing around all night and didn't have a chance to get out here any earlier."
    "It doesn't matter," Garrison said dully. "I don't know what it is to sleep any more, anyway."
    "I want to ask you some questions," Cameron said, "about that nail that was the cause of your wife's death."
    Garrison looked surprised, as though wondering what there was to ask about such a thing. "It was just a nail," he said.
    "Can you show it to me?"
    "It's gone. I yanked it out and threw it away."
    "Can you show me where it was?"
    "Yes, I can do that." He led him out to the front door. "Right down there," and pointed. "Can you see that little pit there in the woodwork? That's where it was, sticking out of the frame. We came home late that night, and as I opened the door for her and she went in, the darn thing grazed her leg as she went by. We couldn't understand what it was doing all the way down there. It served no purpose. There's no split in the wood to be held tight. It seemed to have been driven in at random."
    "Random?" Cameron said dryly, querying with his eyebrows. "Any idea how long it had been in there?"
    "It might have been there for years. If it was, we'd never noticed it before."
    "Had it ever grazed her leg until that night, or yours?"
    "No, never. Neither one of us."
    "Then it was never in there until that night. If it scratched her leg that night, it would have scratched her leg before, if it had been in there before that night. That takes care of that." But he sounded sombre about it, not pleased.
    They both straightened up, being unable to hold the acutely bent positions of their backs any longer.
    "Had anyone heard any sounds of tapping or hammering?"
    "There wasn't anyone here to have heard. We'd been away for the weekend. This was a Sunday night and we'd been away since the Friday before. The house had been closed for those two days. The servants only came back after we did, the following morning, Monday."
    Cameron tried the door. Brought it around to full closure, swung it inward to full opening once more.
    "The nail stayed on the outside, even with the door tightly locked. The door swings in, so the nail didn't block it. Now let's see. You as the man would take out your key and unlock it. Then you'd step aside to let her go in first. But she'd be a little crowded. Your hand would still be on the knob, pushing the door open for her. Your whole body'd be on this side of her. So she'd have to veer over to that side where the nail was. That's how it would reach her. Otherwise, if she'd gone in dead center, she would have avoided it. Going in a door is a habit," he explained. "You never think of it, but you never vary it either." And to himself he