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he was inside

he was taking her presence for granted. Mortenson was never discomposed

by anything.
     
     
"Say, Bill," he said in his easy, friendly manner. "After what happened

yesterday, don't you think you could use some help? I mean, you're all

on your own here. Pat doesn't count when the broken glass starts flying.

Suppose I move in with you?"
     
     
I considered it. There might be times when I'd be glad of Mortenson

around. But I knew I was right in having as little as possible to

do with the people I had already chosen. The case of Pat proved it,

though I hadn't chosen her. Everyone about me was suspect. I didn't

want Mortenson, the Powells, Leslie, and Harry Phillips to be found in

an alley with knives in their backs.
     
     
"Smart, Fred," Pat remarked admiringly. "Just in case Bill hasn't had

a chance to appreciate your sterling qualities, you want to hang around

and give him the opportunity. You needn't worry. He knows what a great

guy you are."
     
     
He admitted his motive without a trace of irritation. Mortenson was

always easy, friendly, natural. "The thought had crossed my mind,"

he said. "How about it, Bill?"
     
     
"Better not," I said, and explained why, without telling him he was on

the list. He nodded. "Reasonable," he admitted. "More than that, you're

perfectly right. Announce the names of the ten people who're going with

you, and it's the National Bank to one peanut not more than one of your

ten would be alive the same night. Say, Pat, if Bill won't take my offer

-- when you want to go out and Bill isn't around, give me a ring, will

you? I don't pretend I'm crazy about you, but I'd hate to see you after

that swan-white neck of yours had had an interview with a meat ax."
     
     
Pat shuddered. "You put things so realistically," she said.
     
     
Before he went Mortenson warned me that he wouldn't be the last caller I

had that morning. "I came early to get in first," he said frankly. "I know

Miss Wallace is coming to see you, and the Powells, and Sammy Hoggan -- "
     
     
"Sammy!" I exclaimed. "Can he walk?"
     
     
"I knew you'd underrate Sammy," said Mortenson, shaking his head.

"Nearly twenty-four hours ago he went out flat. Now, apart from a head

he'd be glad to sell if anyone would buy it, he's the old Sammy. Suddenly

realized the girl wasn't worth it."
     
     
Knowing he couldn't leave a better impression by staying longer, he went

out and closed the door quietly.
     
     
Mortenson was a puzzle -- which meant, of course, that I didn't quite

understand him. I can't hope to convey the principal thing about him

when you met him -- the impression he gave of being larger than life,

of having done and seen everything. He was the man of ten talents. After

he had gone one wondered what was so startling about what he had said

and done; but one never wondered that at the time.
     
     
I looked at Pat quizzically. "You don't like him," I said.
     
     
"On the contrary," she retorted flippantly, "I've been in love with him

for years. Now and then he's even acknowledged it in passing."
     
     
"You don't sound as if you loved him."
     
     
"Think hard, Bill. Can you imagine me sounding as if I were in love

with anybody?"
     
     
That rang the bell. Pat had grown up in a school of life in which the

first rule to be learned was: Show your feelings, and someone will slap

you down for it.
     
     
"You wouldn't like to tell me about it, would you?" I asked.
     
     
"There's nothing to tell. What does a lady tell a gentleman about another

gentleman?" She was very bitter over the words "lady" and "gentleman."

I said nothing, hoping she would fill the silence with words. Presently

she did.
     
     
"I threw myself at him," she said. "I didn't know any better. But it

didn't matter, for he was kind and understanding. He caught me and put

me down gently. That's all you can ask of anyone, isn't it? This was

when I was seventeen. I tried again, and this time he didn't put me

down