Lucy Hamilton’s eager voice cut his recollections short. “Hello.”

“Lucy-I just got in and I-”

“Michael! Where on earth were you all day?”

“I wasn’t,” he said, grinning briefly. “I was on water. But never mind that now,” he went on soberly. “This Sara Morton-didn’t she tell you anything about what she wanted?”

“Not a thing-except it was terribly urgent. I kept telling her you’d be in or phone any minute and I’d have you call her-until the last time. Then I had to confess I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach you,” she said in a small, hurt voice; then went on crisply, as she had begun: “She didn’t say much, but I had a feeling she was quite upset, because she insisted that you call her, no matter what time you came in. If you’re going to have an office and keep a secretary you might at least-”

“Save it for tomorrow, angel,” he interrupted. “I’m on my way to the Tidehaven right now.” He replaced the receiver slowly, heard her say, “Good night, Michael,” faintly, before it clicked.

His sense of drowsy relaxation had vanished, the polo shirt and faded dungarees forgotten. His gaze was cold and remote, flickering over Lucy’s memos, the cut squares of paper with their threatening warnings, and, finally, the special-delivery note.

A single phrase leaped out at him: I have given up hope. She had waited for his call until six-thirty, and-

He wadded the memo sheet into a ball and thrust it into a side pocket, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope, and went out and down to his car.

The Tidehaven Hotel faced Biscayne Bay and was only a short distance, but from habit he drove the three blocks and parked in the inner lane of the Boulevard opposite the marquee.