She had been looking at the cat, but now she glanced up sharply.

"Is there something wrong with you?" she asked.

Maxwell shook his head.

"You're sort of frosty around the gills."

"A bit of shock," he told her. "I suppose that's it. What I told you was the truth. I did, at one time, live here. Up until a few weeks ago. There was a mix-up somehow."

"Sit down," she said. "Could you use a drink?

"I suspect I could," he said. "My name is Peter Maxwell and I'm a member of the faculty-"

"Wait a moment. You said Maxwell? Peter Maxwell. I remember now. That's the name."

"Yes, I know," said Maxwell. "Of the man who died."

He sat down carefully on the couch.

"I'II get the drink," the girl said.

Sylvester slid closer and gently laid his massive head in Maxwell's lap. Maxwell scratched him behind an ear and purring loudly, Sylvester turned his head a bit to show Maxwell where it itched.

The girl came with the drink and sat down beside him.

"I still don't understand," she told him. "If you're the man who..."

"The whole thing," Maxwell told her, "becomes somewhat complicated."

"I must say you're taking it rather well. Shaken up a bit, perhaps, but not stricken in a heap."

"Well, the fact of the matter is," said Maxwell, "that I halfway knew it. I'd been told, you see, but I didn't quite believe it. I suppose the truth is that I wouldn't let myself believe it."

He raised the glass. "You're not drinking?"

"If you're all right," she said. "If you feel OK, I'll get one for myself." "

Oh, I'm all right," said Maxwell. "I'll manage to survive."