Rain began to fall again.

Who was the scoundrel in there with her? A lover—or only a friend? A friend or only a teacher? Or both? All three? He waited, stiff with anxiety, heart chilled with fear. Rainwater trickled from his hair, down his face and neck. He realized more fully than before the depth of his folly in coming here uninvited, unannounced. He was a fool. He was a lunatic. A pathetic fool, a pitiable lunatic.

The music continued, halted, repeated itself, went on. Henry lowered the heavy knocker silently and stole away on tippytoe, down the walk, out the gate and around the corner before any eye detected him.

One block away he halted once more. In painful thought. He had to see her. That much was clear. He would not travel seven hundred miles by stinking Greyhound without even a glimpse of the girl he loved.

He returned to a point from which he could see the front of Claire’s home, the wall, the gate. Perhaps the man inside would soon leave. There were a number of cars parked along the street, all new, enamel gleaming under the renewed descent of rain. Perhaps one of them belonged to Claire’s visitor. No doubt he’d soon be departing.

Henry leaned against the trunk of an elm, turned up the collar of his shirt and lit a cigar, assuming a pose of casual and innocent introspection. An automobile passed, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. And then another. But no pedestrians, not one, appeared on the sidewalks. Henry began to feel conspicuous. He longed for the relative anonymity of hat and umbrella. He noticed curtains stirring in a front window of a nearby square three-storied house of brick, important-looking. He left his post under the leaky shelter of the tree and walked up the sidewalk past Claire’s house, on the opposite side of the street. He walked two blocks, glancing back from time to time, then returned and resumed his place under the dripping tree. He waited.

After a while a police car came around the corner and stopped beside the tree. The two men in blue stared at Henry; he stared at them. Neither got out of the car. The driver beckoned Henry close with two significant twitches of a thick forefinger. He wore three chevrons on his sleeve.

Yessir?

Let’s see some I.D. The policemen stared intently at Henry as he pulled out his wallet and fished his Utah driver’s license—illustrated—from its once-clear now-grizzled plastic case. He gave it to the driver. The driver studied it. His partner watched Henry, a short-barreled riot gun held upright between his knees.

The rain poured gently but steadily on Henry’s head.