Three hours later the house had assumed the dead sogginess of a quiet Saturday afternoon, three pages ofnote-paper were covered with obscure but vaguely ominous doodles, and I was no nearer an answer that made sensethan when I’d gone into the den.

I sighed and threw down my pencil.

My back was stiff from sitting at the desk, and I got up to find the pain multiplied along every inch of myspinal cord. I slid the asset-liability evaluation under my blotter and cleaned the cigarette ashes off the desk where I’dmissed the ashtray.

Then I dumped the ashtray in the waste basket. It was Saturday and Charlotte frowned on dirty ashtrays leftabout, even in my private territory.

When I came out the place was still as a tomb, and I imagined Charlotte had gone into the downtownsection of our hamlet to gawk at the exclusive shops and their exclusive contents.I went into the kitchen and looked through the window. The car was gone, bearing out my suspicions. Myeyes turned themselves heavenward and my mind reeled out bank balances without prompting.“Want to talk now, John?”

I could have sworn my legs were made of ice and they were melting me down to the kitchen linoleum. Iturned around and—that’s right—Da Campo was in the doorway to the dining room.

“What do you want?” I bluffed, stepping forward threateningly.

“I came over to borrow a cup of sugar and talk a little, John,” said Da Campo, smiling.The utter incongruity of it! Borrowing a cup of sugar! It was too funny to equate with weird plants and oddgoings-on in the house across the street. It took the edge off my belligerence quite effectively.“S-sure, I suppose I can find the wife’s sugar.” Then it occurred to me: “How do you know my name?”“How do you know mine?”

“Why I—I asked the neighbors. Like to know who’s living across the street, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s how I know yours, John. I asked my neighbors.”