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idea. At least he’d given up mentioning it. It was still in the back of his mind, hidden away like a deformed child from the dis­approving gaze of his brother-in-law.
    On Monday morning he arrived late at the office, a habit that was growing on him, especially since Amy had left. Miss Burton, pumpkin-haired for the beginning of the autumn season, was on the telephone looking dis­traught. This she did easily and with so little provoca­tion that Rupert paid no attention. He found Miss Bur­ton’s anxiety states more tolerable if he stayed beyond their boundaries as much as possible.
    â€œHold on, operator. He’s just this minute coming in the door.” Miss Burton pressed the telephone dramati­cally to her chest. “Thank God you’ve come! A Mr. John­son in Mexico City wants to talk to you.”
    â€œI don’t know any Mr. Johnson in Mexico City.”
    â€œHe’s from the American Embassy. It must be terribly important. You don’t suppose something awful has . . .”
    â€œIsn’t this the wrong time to suppose, Miss Burton? I’ll take the call in my office.” He closed the door behind him and picked up the phone. “Rupert Kellogg speak­ing.”
    â€œOne moment, please, Mr. Kellogg. All right, go ahead. Here’s your party, Mr. Johnson.”
    â€œMr. Kellogg? This is the American Embassy in Mex­ico City, Johnson speaking. I have bad news to report so I might as well give it to you now and straight.”
    â€œMy wife . . .”
    â€œYour wife’s going to be all right. It’s her companion, Mrs. Wyatt. She’s dead. To be quite blunt about it, she went on a drinking spree and killed herself.”
    Rupert was silent.
    â€œMr. Kellogg, are you still there? Operator, I’ve been cut off. Operator! Telefonista! For the love of the Lord, couldn’t I make just one phone call without interruption? Telefonista! ”
    â€œYou haven’t been cut off,” Rupert said. “I was—this is a—shock. I—I have known Mrs. Wyatt for many years. How did it happen?”
    Johnson told him what details he knew, in a sharp, disapproving voice, as if he considered Wilma’s death a breach of international etiquette.
    â€œAnd my wife?”
    â€œShe’s suffering from shock, naturally. They’ve taken her to the American-British-Corday hospital. Do you want that address?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s Mariano Escobedo, 628. The telephone number is 11-49-00.”
    â€œWill she be able to talk to me if I call?”
    â€œOh no. She’s under sedation. She has a head injury incurred when she fainted, nothing serious as far as I know.”
    â€œHow long will she be in the hospital?”
    â€œIt’s impossible to tell,” Johnson said. “Do you have any friends here who could look after her?”
    â€œNo. I’d better come down myself.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea. Shall I call the Windsor Hotel where she was staying and ask them to hold the suite for you?”
    â€œPlease,” Rupert said. “I’d also appreciate it if you left a message at the hospital for her: I’ll be down there tonight.”
    â€œWhat if you can’t make it tonight?”
    â€œI’ll make it. There’s a flight leaving in two hours. My wife took it last week.”
    â€œDo you have a tourist card? They won’t let you on the plane without one.”
    â€œI’ll get one.”
    â€œVery well. I’ll leave the message for her. One more thing, Mr. Kellogg. The police were unable to find any next of kin to Mrs. Wyatt. Has she any relatives?”
    â€œA sister in San Diego.”
    â€œName?”
    â€œRuth Sullivan.”
    â€œAddress?”
    â€œI don’t know where she’s living, but her husband is a lieutenant commander attached to the Eleventh Naval District. It shouldn’t be hard to find out his home address. Earl