That was one thing I couldn’t figure, the pregnancy. I had always watched my step there, and yet it had happened anyway. Or at least Peggy had said it had. Maybe it had all been a bluff. In any event, it didn’t make any difference now.

Perhaps you’re wondering if I felt any guilt. Well, a little, I suppose. But at least the kid had been happy before she died. Up there in the woods she’d had more happiness than most of us ever get, including me. All I had done was spare her from forty more years of sweat and toil.

And then I got the phone call. It sure shook me up.

It came when I was at work, slaving over one of our most important accounts. I was bent low over the drafting board, planning my work three and four steps ahead, juggling seven or eight different compositional factors in my mind at the same time, when I heard someone come in to stand behind me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Foster. There’s a phone call for you on Extension 103.”

I glanced up with half an eye. It was Phil, the office boy. I said, “Is it my wife? Tell her I’m busy and can’t come to the phone right now. Tell her I’ll call her back in fifteen minutes.”

“It isn’t your wife, Mr. Foster. It’s some man who wants to talk to you.”

Berril, probably. He was the only man I knew who knew my office number. “Well, get his number, then,” I snapped, irritated. “I’ll be busy for the next quarter hour or so.” I picked up my pencil again and turned back to my work.

“Got the number?” I asked when Phil returned.

“No, Mr. Foster. He wouldn’t give it. Says he has to talk to you right now. He says it’s urgent.”

I scowled. Berril had a lot of nerve pulling a stunt like that, I thought. But I didn’t have any alternative. I rose from my desk.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take the call. Thanks for the legwork, Phil.”

I crossed the office, jabbed down the “103” button on my phone, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Foster? Mr. Mike Foster?”

I frowned. That wasn’t Berril’s voice.

“That’s right,” I said. “Who’s this, please?”

“My name is Harrison. Duke Harrison.” The voice was low and deep, confident, assured. I wondered who the hell he was and what he wanted with me.

It wasn’t long before I found out. His next words were, “I’m a friend of Miss Armour’s, Mr. Foster. Miss Peggy Armour. I believe you know her.”

I nearly dropped the receiver. I could feel my face drain of blood. I looked at the phone wire as if it was about to turn into a viper. “Peggy—Armour?” I repeated slowly.

“That’s right. You know her, don’t you?”