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hour of evening. G.

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    James looked at his watch. It was six thirty.

 

    Nearly Three and One Half Hours

    since he had been abducted. He had never imagined, when he had thought of how his life would be, that kidnapping would be part of it. Certainly, as a mnemonist, he had entertained the idea. If he would undertake to commit some state secret to memory, surely there would be dangers. But he had been put forward for no such detail.

    In any case, they had not abducted him. Supposedly, he had been invited to come to the house.

    Also, they thought he had pushed Mayne out the window. Furthermore, they thought that, and had not gone to the police.

    This, James realized, was a pretty piece of reasoning, and might go a long way towards puncturing McHale the second and his rationalizations. Yes, the first McHale must be correct, must have been correct about everything. Only criminals would fail to turn in a man they thought to be a criminal.

    But what, thought James then, if there was actually only one McHale? What if the whole thing is an elaborate psychological experiment? What if they have been changing the newspapers on the newsstands that I pass?

    This made a great deal of sense to him. However, the implications were too frightening to bear.

    A bird that sits in a cage is likewise endowed with the fortune of domesticity and the failure of civilization. That is to say, he shall be provided for against all but death and jealousy, and one will always come before the other.

    But it was impossible, thought James. The first McHale had not been acting. Also, the newspapers were not rigged. They couldn't be. The threat was real and, James felt sure, would be carried out unless he, James, could stop it.

    He stood up, circled his chair, and sat again. He took off his coat, removed the pistol from his pocket, and whistled a little tune.

    It was a fine tune, a few notes he himself had strung together one night in a dream. He often whistled it, but was never aware of this whistling. If he had had a wife or friend, someone by now would have pointed it out to him, and the small beauty of this unconsciousness, and this invisibly pleasurable whistling, would have passed out of the world.

    The gun has a real weight, thought James. It was a revolver. He found the release mechanism and checked to see if the gun was loaded. It was. Eight bullets neatly in a circle.

    Well, then, he thought. If I have to leave immediately, they won't be able to stop me.

    Just then another knock came at the door.

 

    James went out into the hall. There was another note on his shelf. He picked it up and went inside.

    This note read:

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    Please read the entire manual before stirring from your room. As you will find out, there are reasons for our rules, and consequences for the breaking of rules. While you are with us, we trust you will abide by our habits.

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    The Visit of Grieve

    Grieve stood by the window. She was NOT as expected. The reason was this: James had never seen the girl before.

    She was young and rather plain with a fine figure. She wore a short dress and her hair was pulled back in a yellow scarf.

    —They're just dreadful, dreadful, she said.

    and

    —I overheard them talking, and you sounded so nice, and it was

    so unfortunate what was being done to you.

    and also

    —I just thought, I will see if I can help him. And so I came here.

    —Well, said James. Thank you.

    It soon came out that she was a maid in the house itself.

    —But, he said, I thought that Grieve was—

    —No, no, she said. That's Grieve whose father is the owner. I am named after her. Before I came here, I had a different name, but we are encouraged in this house to take the names of others whom we admire, and so, after several years, I became Grieve. Of course, I'm not the only one. There are other maids named Grieve. We all adore her so.

 

    The Visit of Grieve, Part 2

    James sat down on the bed.

    —So they intend to keep me here until