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terribly painful ... John! What happened?"
    He flicked the sheet over himself. Her concern made the encounter with Hogan now trifling.
    Staring up at the ceiling he told her about Hogan and he told her about Bernstein.
    "I'm in trouble," he concluded. "I must have money. For months now I have been hunting for a way out. Now I have found you. The two of us will escape together at the cost of a man's life."
    "You owe this bookmaker a thousand ... why do you need three thousand?" Meg asked.
    "I need two thousand to cover the first premium on a fifty thousand dollar life policy," Anson told her. "Until the first premium is paid, we can't even think about how we can get rid of your husband. So ... somehow ... I have to raise three thousand dollars." He leaned back against the pillows, looking out of the dirt grimed window at the rising sun. "I'll have to steal it." He looked at her and grinned. "One thing leads to another, doesn't it? When you get involved in murder, you go the whole way or you don't go at all."
    "Steal it? What do you mean?" He put his hand on her thigh.
    "Just that. I must have three thousand dollars. It shouldn't be difficult. I'm committed now. I must find some way to get it." There was a pause, then as she said nothing, but stared quizzingly at him, he went on, "What kind of man is your husband business-wise?"
    She made a contemptuous movement.
    "All he thinks about ... apart from sex ... is flowers."
    "Suppose he has papers to sign? Would he read all the details, including the small print? Is he cautious about what he signs? Some people read every word: others sign without reading anything. This is important. Would he want to read every word of an insurance policy before he signed?"
    "No, but he would never sign an insurance policy."
    "Just suppose he had a policy in front of him with three or maybe four copies ... would he check them all?"
    "He wouldn't. He's not like that."
    Anson finished his coffee and set down the cup.
    "That's all I want to know ... it'll do for a start." He leaned forward and pulled her down beside him. "You really want to go ahead with this thing, Meg? Once you're in it, there'll be no turning back."
    She ran her fingers through his blond hair.
    "Why do you keep doubting me?" she asked. "/ said I'll do it with you. Don't you understand? To have you and all that money, I'll take any risk."
    In the silence of the bedroom with the first rays of the sun striking the dusty mirror above the dressing-table, feeling her fingers caressing through his hair and down the back of his neck, Anson was stupid enough to believe her.
    It was while he was eating an under-done egg and burned toast that Anson happened to notice something in a frame, hanging on the wall opposite to where he was sitting.
    "What's that?" he asked, pointing a buttery knife. "What's that on the wall?"
    Meg was sipping coffee. The time was ten minutes past eight. She was now wearing a shabby green wrap that was none too clean. Her hair was tousled, but in spite of the lack of make-up, she still looked sensually and excitingly beautiful.
    She glanced in the direction to which he was pointing.
    "Oh, that's Phil's. He's very proud of it. It's a certificate for shooting. Phil is quite a shot."
    Anson pushed back his chair and crossed the room and examined the ornate certificate in its black frame. He read that the certificate had been awarded by the Pru's Town Small Arms and Target Club to Philip Barlowe for winning the first prize in the .38 revolver shooting tournament held last March.
    Anson walked thoughtfully back to the table. He sat down and pushed aside his half eaten egg. His expression was so thoughtful that Meg looked enquiringly at him.
    "What is it, John?"
    "So he shoots," Anson said.
    "Not now, but he used to. He hasn't done any shooting for nearly a year. I wish be would go to his dreary club. He would be out of my way."
    "He owns a gun?" Anson asked.
    "Yes," Meg said, frowning. "What's on your mind now, John?"
    "Is