‘You’re just as arbitrary as Sara.’

‘Sure. I inherited it from her. Can do?’

‘Oh, I suppose . . .’

‘Get at it, then, and pack a bag — just toilet things and some underwear.’

‘But where — what . . .’

‘Thought maybe we’d run over to Saratoga Springs and see the new buildings there. But the point isn’t where we’re going; it’s the fun of us two running off together.’

‘I think I might like it.’

She was already dialling Mrs. Kamerkink.

Fred hurried upstairs and packed one bag — the chief necessity in it, the latest P. G. Wodehouse novel. He telephoned to his secretary, at the office, that it was such a hot day — going take little run to Saratoga — would she call up Mr. Howard and Miss Sara and — tell ’em be back endaweekmiddlanext.

When Howard telephoned, as Howard was certain to, Fred was densely misunderstanding about the overwhelming need of Bogey & Cornplow for his advice on importunate problems. He merely chuckled a little, inanely babbled, ‘Yuh, thought I’d check out for couple days — Saratoga’, hung up on Howard — though, to any salesman, hanging up is a crime ranking with malfeasance and conversion — and did not answer the telephone when it rang again. That would be Sara. He knew that Sara would hurry right back to the house, but he also knew that Sara could never hurry right back anywhere without stopping to nag somebody about something, and indeed she did not arrive until five minutes after Fred had set the nickled snout of his Triumph Special Convertible Coupé eastward on Fenimore Cooper Boulevard, with Hazel warm and bewildered beside him.

Though he felt that in his flight into Egypt there were several important principles illustrated, he was thinking less about his boldness in running away from the parental tyranny of his children than about the fact that in the taut grey suit and the small tricorne hat which Hazel had assumed for motoring she looked ten years younger than when, soft and flowing, hinting of the harem, she appeared in an afternoon frock, phony jewellery and household cares. He observed that she was beginning to permit herself the questionable privilege of enjoying life. Could she ever be cured of her servitude to Things, her love of Possessions and of establishing her secure respectability by showing them off? Could she ever be free of blue china and of lacy mats?

She said cheerfully, ‘It’ll be interesting to see Saratoga Springs.’

‘Yes, I guess maybe it would be, some day.’

‘How do you mean? What are you being so mysterious about?’

‘You don’t know half of it. Listen, honey! I’m the most mysterious guy in this whole length and breadth of Sachem Falls! I’m Frenzied Fred, the Masked Menace. I’m right out of Edgar Wallace. I’m J. G. Reeder, with a dagger in my fountain pen.’

‘Idiot! What ARE you . . .’

‘I’m the man with three faces — all of ’em prob’ly a mistake.’