Storm glanced over as if he’d only just noticed the factotum was there. “Anguished,” he said. “This is how I do anguished.”

But, to Bernard’s infinite relief, he left off. He wandered gloomily over to the planter in the corner, the one from which some stuffed something stared with goggly eyes. He stood over it, stared back.

Bernard waited, studied him, wistfully. He had already deduced that his American co-worker was ill. Now, seeing him with his sad eyes ringed and his craggy features somehow blurry, overly pale, he was beginning to feel the situation was even worse than he’d imagined. He didn’t like this, not a bit. On top of which, he was given to occasional bouts of hypochondria, and hated to think about such things.

“You know what it’s like,” said Storm, “when you want to—just—pour a woman into a glass and—just—drink her—just drink her down, one gulp, body and soul?”

Bernard made a bemused frown. “Not really. I’m appalling.”

“No, hell,” said Storm. “Different strokes …”

“No, I mean, I’m a Pauline: all things to all people. I have died from time to time, I suppose, and worms have certainly eaten me—but not for love.”

Storm, who clearly had no idea what Baldy was talking about, merely shrugged. “Well, you’re not missing anything, believe me. I swear to God, I don’t understand her.”

“I’ve heard that’s part of it.”

“No, I mean Harper. I don’t understand why she told me to get involved with this. What did she think would happen?”

The factotum didn’t answer. One long leg stretched out, he used the heel of his trainer to shift his chair around. He had his own doubts about Harper’s motives, but he thought it best for now to keep his opinions to himself.

Storm lifted his eyes suddenly. Looked over the office as if for the first time: over the magazine covers with their photos of strange creatures, over the strange creatures in the aquaria here and there, over the shrieking telamons supporting the fireplace mantelpiece, and the carnivorous cactus panting against the high windows, against the darkling winter sky above World’s End.

“What does she, own this place?” he said. “This whole building? Where does she get the money for this?”

Bernard smiled. That was better. He loved gossip. And this was exactly the sort of pertinent question that the man from Hollywood so frequently neglected to ask.

“Ah,” he said, settling in, lifting an exquisite hand, “I see she hasn’t told you about her father. Her Magwitch …”

“Magwitch? What kind of name is that? How can her father be named Magwitch?”

Bernard sighed. “No, no, her father isn’t named Magwitch …”

But just then there was a noise below. Locks and latches rattled. The ground floor door could be heard to crack open. Bernard placed a finger to his lips.