This sort of analyzing and overthinking would have driven a lesser man to despair. But for Harold Smith it was just another of the thousand seemingly small things that added to the weight of his crushing daily burden.

Smith gave the young woman at the desk a curt nod as he entered her office. "Miss Purvish," he said crisply.

"That delivery you expected came while you were out, Dr. Smith," his secretary said. "I had the workmen put it in the basement just like you requested."

"Thank you, Miss Purvish," Smith said. With quick strides he crossed to his office door. His long fingers snaked impatiently to the brass knob.

"What's it for?"

Smith's grip tightened on the doorknob. For an instant he was frozen in place.

His secretary's words didn't exactly shock like a physical blow, yet they registered deeply.

He would have preferred not answering at all. But in moments like these he found that all the women who worked for him tended toward the tenacious. It was typical for their gender. A nonanswer would inspire greater curiosity.

"I intend to use it for storage," Smith said.

"Oh," Miss Purvish said with a confident nod. She was already returning to her typing. "I thought it was for something like that. But it was so big and I didn't see any drawers. It looked like a big steel box." Her interest mollified, she began pecking away at the stiff keys of her manual typewriter.

The young woman was getting too familiar. As Smith slipped into his office, he made a mental note to rotate Miss Purvish back out to the sanitarium for a few weeks. He shut the door behind him with a muted click.

The inner office was clean and Spartan. A few chairs, a sofa near the door. A couple of plain wooden file cabinets.

Smith hurried to his desk, sliding into his comfortable leather chair.