“Hello, Fred,” Leland said. Miller was the shorter of the two, but he outweighed Leland by fifty pounds. Under the raglan coat was a brown pinstripe suit with wide lapels. He had gained twenty pounds more since he had ordered it. The tips of his shirt collar were turned up from absorbed perspiration.

“Hello, Joe,” he said. “I should have dropped you a line first, but I figured that you kept regular business hours. This is Mrs. Colin MacIver, of Port Smith. This is Joe Leland, Norma.”

“How do you do?” Alto and soft, like a touch of adenoiditis. She did not want to shake hands.

“How are you?” Leland said. “Shall we go inside?”

“I was wondering,” she said. She looked back at Florence. Leland beckoned to his secretary. He had been wondering himself how Mrs. MacIver had lasted.

“That’s right,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Flo, see that Mrs. MacIver has what she wants. We’ll be in my office.” And as soon as Miller was inside, Leland closed the door.

Miller wrestled out of his coat and hung it on the clothes tree. “What was that about?”

“A trip to the bathroom. Have a seat. Took the train up, eh?”

“That’s right. How’d you know? Boy, we were up early.”

Leland thought that he could let the question go. Miller had been wearing his shirt for hours; if he had taken the plane—there was a plane every two hours—he would still look fresh.

Miller eased into one of the armchairs in front of Leland’s desk. The desk was clear but for the telephone, intercom, and the brochure from Piper. On either side of the door to Mike’s office were bookcases containing law, police, and criminology textbooks. Against the opposite wall was a green vinyl-covered couch, and above it, two citations from the Port Smith Police Department. One was dated 1940 and had Valor printed on it, and the other, dated 1948, simply showed Leland’s name. On the bookcases, across from the citations so that a rough symmetry was achieved, were two model airplanes, in attitudes of climbing, a P-47 Thunderbolt and, nearer the outer office, a P-51 Mustang. Their builder—not Leland—had arranged them to point to a vertex near the ceiling, but somehow the Thunderbolt had become twisted around to face the window. The furnishings were so simple in total that this irregularity disturbed the balance of the room. Leland gathered up the Piper brochure and slipped it into a lower drawer.

He took his time lighting a cigarette. He had not forgotten that a conversation with Miller was a heavy task. “Tell me how you’ve been, Fred. Let’s just bat the breeze until Mrs. MacIver gets back.”

“I’m doing all right. I’m a Chartered Life Underwriter now, you know. Got my Million Dollar Award.”

“Very nice,” Leland said. “Very, very nice.”