Grudgingly, I admitted my error. "True, you said that. But how can one possibly tell the difference? I mean — "

"May I tell it my own way?"

"Please do." I went back to my chair, sat, watched her as she spoke, but my eyes did not meet hers. Somehow, on this bright-white normal afternoon in January, in the accustomed confines of my very own office, I could not bring myself to look full upon this woman's eyes.

"I live at One-thirty-three West Thirty-third Street," she said.

"Uh huh," I said and happily business-like, I jotted it down, delighted for something prosaic to do.

"It's a one-room apartment on the fourth floor. 4 C."

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured, jotting assiduously.

"Two months ago, on November fifteenth, exactly one year from the time of his death, Adam came to visit me."

"Adam came to visit," I murmured as I jotted — and then I flung the pencil away. "Now just a minute, Miss Troy!"

Quite mildly she said, "Yes, Mr. Chambers?"

"Adam is the guy who's dead, or isn't he? Adam is the guy whom, allegedly, you people murdered, or isn't he?"

"Yes, he is."

"And he came to visit you?"

"Precisely."

I sighed. "Where?"

"On the afternoon of November fifteenth, I had gone out to the supermarket for a bit of shopping. When I came home, he was there, sitting quietly in a chair, waiting for me."

I recovered my pencil and pretended to make notes. "Are you sure it was Adam?"

"The ghost of Adam. Adam is dead."

"Yes, naturally, ghost of Adam. How did he look?"

"Exactly as he had looked on the day he died. He was even wearing the same clothes — the high-laced boots, the green ski suit, the green ski cap."

"He talked to you?"

"Yes."

"How did he sound?"

"As always. Adam had a deep booming voice. He sounded sad, aggrieved, but not, actually, angry."