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the distant, lonely weeping of a woman. Definitely a woman.
        
        But who?
        
        He stood there in the dark, “hearing” the sobs of the woman, unable to decide what to do.
        
        In time, he put the dumbell down and sat in the black leather swivel chair behind the desk.
        
        The running commentary began again, though it was now as distant as the crying, too far away for him ever to catch a single word of it.
        
        His head lowered so that his chin rested on his chest, he tried to close out all stimuli except that ghostly voice. He closed his eyes now that he felt secure in his own home, and he placed his hands over his ears-an act which did nothing to dull the murmur of the eerie voice.
        
        The voice grew distinct again; it was most definitely a woman's voice, soft and musical. She sounded as if she might be in her early or middle thirties. Indeed, he was struck with the notion that the voice was familiar, though he did not know where he might have heard it before.
        
        “… money… he'll pay… then see… who…”
        
        The voice seemed to emanate from his left, though there was nothing in that direction but a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Nonetheless, he swung his chair in that direction, keeping his eyes closed and his hands pressed flat to his ears. When he faced the bookcase, he found that her voice was clearer than it had been. He was catching whole phrases and some short sentences instead of random words.
        
        “Hank, you sonofabitch!” she moaned, voicelessly.
        
        That was followed by the soft, barely audible sobbing sounds.
        
        But that line had been delivered with such ferocity, such depths of emotion, that he knew immediately who he was listening to. Next door, in an eight room Tudor house, Henry and Annie Faydor lived with one child, seven-year-old Robbie. Annie was a vivacious blonde, thirty-one or two. It was Annie he had heard.
        
        He listened, his throat dry.
        
        In time, the chaotic sobbing noises died and words trickled back to him again. He listened, tuning more closely to what she said. It was a long, sad tale about Henry-Hank-and his unfaithfulness. She alternately considered killing him, merely divorcing him, or even taking him back and forgiving him. She rambled over the horrid details, fascinated by his faithlessness, but mostly giving way to the dominant train of thoughts that took most of her attention: “I'm going to take him to the cleaners, get him for every dime, the house and the car, fifty percent of what he earns from now on, until no woman would have him and he'll be fighting like hell to make ends meet!”
        
        He let her whispers fade into the background until he could only hear bits and pieces again. He was disgusted with himself for eavesdropping as long as he had.
        
        He sat in darkness, Annie Faydor's whispers like muzak for lonely people. It took him ten minutes to come to the decision he knew he had to make. He picked up the telephone on the desk, pulled out the 50-number personal directory in the base, and dialed the house next door.
        
        The phone rang eighteen times.
        
        Finally, she answered it. She was surly, for she evidently thought it was Henry. He let her say hello three times, until he was certain she was Annie and that she was home. Then he hung up. Until she had answered the phone, he could pretend that there were many explanations to the eerie, whispering voice. But once he knew she was home, and once he was able to compare her voice to the whisper that constantly accompanied him now, he could not excuse the phenomenon. He had been reading her mind.
        
        Annie Faydor's whining complaint against her perfidious husband and against the world in general was getting to be a distinct drag. He attempted to snuff the entire thing out of