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and openly. When I walked fast he walked fast, and when I paused he paused. There was something almost sadistic about it.”
    â€œHe’s probably a neighborhood nut who gets his kicks out of scaring women,” Meecham said. Or a policeman, he thought, maybe one of Cordwink’s men. “Where is he now?”
    â€œThe last I saw of him he had gone behind the cedar hedge.” She crossed to the window and pointed. “Right there, at the entrance to the driveway. He might be there yet.”
    â€œI’ll go out and take a look.”
    â€œWhat if he’s dangerous? Maybe we should call the po­lice immediately.”
    â€œFirst, let’s see if he’s still there,” Meecham said.
    Outside, the snow was still falling. It felt good, after the heat of the house. Through the patio and down the drive­way Meecham walked, a little self-consciously, aware that the two women were watching him from the window and not sure how far they could see, since it wasn’t totally dark yet.
    By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway the snow didn’t feel quite so pleasant. With quiet persist­ence it had seeped in over the tops of his shoes, and up his coat sleeves and down under his collar. He felt cold and wet and foolish.
    He said, in a voice that wasn’t as loud or as firm as he in­tended: “Hey. You behind the hedge. What are you do­ing?”
    There was no answer. He had expected none. The old girl had probably dreamed up the whole thing. Darkness, weariness, a deserted street, footsteps behind—together they were rich food for the imagination.
    Pulling up his coat collar against the snow, he was on the point of turning to go back to the house when a man shuf­fled out from the shadow of the hedge. He moved like an old man, and his hair and eyebrows were white, but the whiteness was snow. He stood with his back to the street lamp so that his face was just a blur in the deepening twi­light. The light-colored baggy coat he wore hung on him like a tent.
    â€œWhat am I doing here?” he said. “I’m waiting for the doctor.”
    â€œBehind a hedge?”
    â€œNo, sir.” He had a rather high, earnest voice, like a schoolboy’s. “I intend to go to his office, but I thought I’d stand here a bit and enjoy the night. I like a winter night.”
    â€œKind of cold, isn’t it?”
    â€œNot for me. I like the smell of cedar too. It reminds me of Christmas. I won’t be having a Christmas this year.” He brushed the snow from his eyebrows with the back of his bare hand. “Of course I’m not really waiting for the doctor.”
    Meecham’s eyes were alert, suspicious. “No?”
    â€œOh, I’ll see him, of course. But what I’m really waiting for—and so are you, if you only knew it—is a destination, a finality, an end of something. My own case is rather spe­cial; I’m waiting for an end of fear.”
    I was right , Meecham thought. He’s a neighborhood nut . Aloud he said, “You’d better pick a more comfortable place to wait. Move on, now. We don’t want any trouble.”
    The man didn’t even hear him. “I’ve died a thousand times from fear. A thousand deaths, and one would have been enough. A great irony.”
    â€œYou’d better move on, go home and get some sleep. Have you got a family?”
    â€œA family?” The young man laughed. “I have a great family.”
    â€œThey may be waiting for you.”
    â€œI won’t be going home tonight.”
    â€œYou can’t stay here.” Meecham glanced briefly at the man’s shoes. Like the overcoat, they looked new. He said anyway, “I can let you have a couple of bucks.”
    â€œWhat do you think, that I’m a bum wanting a hand­out? I’m not a bum.”
    A car came around the corner, its headlights searched the man’s face for a moment like