"No. He's—elsewhere. And I'm hungry. Come keep me company."

He withdrew a copy of Flowers of Evil from beneath the dashboard.

"Where did he go?" came the voice from the book.

"Who?"

"Your friend."

"Oh. Far. Yes, he went far." Red chuckled.

He opened the door and stepped outside. There was

a chill in the air. He moved quickly in the direction of the buildings.

The dining room was shadowy, its chandelier as yet unlit. The tables were of wood and uncovered, as was the floor. A log fire crackled in an open hearth at the room's far end. The only windows were in the front wall.

He glanced at the diners. Two couples were seated before the big window. Young-looking. From their garb and their speech, he placed them as late C Twenty-one. The garments of the delicate-looking man at the table to his right indicated late Victorian England as his place of origin. Seated with his back to the nearer wall was a dark-haired man wearing black trousers and boots, and a white shirt. He was eating chicken and drinking beer. A dark leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. Too basic. Red could not place him.

He moved to the farthest table, turned it, and sat with his back to the comer. He placed Flowers of Evil on the boards before him, opening the volume at random.

" 'Pour I'enfant, amoureux de cartes et Sestampes, Vunivers est egal a son vaste appetit,'" came the tiny voice.

He quickly raised the book to cover his face. 'True," he replied in a whisper. 'Yet you want more, don't you?" 'Just my own little corner." 'And where might that be?" 'Damned if I know."

"I've never quite understood why you do the things-"

A tall, white-haired waiter came up beside the table.

"Your order— Red!"

He looked up, stared a moment

"Johnson?..."

"Yes. Good Lord! It's been years!"