Schmidt was sitting on one of the benches. If it hadn’t been for that damned porch, I’d have spotted him in time and passed on by. To make matters worse, he had swathed himself in bandages that covered his forehead from eyebrows to hairline.

“Ah,” he said, rising stiffly. “You have found him.”

I looked at Tony. “You called the Museum?”

“You were late,” Tony said sulkily. “I thought you’d forgotten. Grüss Gott, Herr Direktor. What the hell happened to you?”

“Grüss Gott. I came,” Schmidt explained, “because I was concerned about you, Vicky. You were not in your office, you did not answer your telephone; and after what happened yesterday—”

“Never mind,” I said.

“I am still sore,” Schmidt said, rubbing his shoulder. “Being dragged by the arms and then thrown—”

“Never mind, Schmidt!”

“Dragged?” Tony repeated. “Thrown. What happened?”

I turned my back on Tony and made a face at Schmidt. It was a sufficient reminder; he was no more anxious than I to let Tony in on our “adventure.”

“Never mind,” said Schmidt.

I had just located my key when the door opened.

“What’s wrong, love? Can’t find your key?” John asked.

The artistic disarrangement of his ambrosial locks was supposed to suggest that he had just got out of bed. I’ve seen characters in soap operas look like that, but never a real person. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he was tucking it into his pants as he spoke. He was barefoot.

“I thought you’d gone,” I stuttered.

“You begged me not to leave,” John said.

When, oh when, I asked myself, was I going to stop playing straight man? I made an effort to get control of a situation which, I venture to assert, not even Emily Post could have handled neatly.

“Dr. Tony Lawrence, this is—”

“Sir John,” Schmidt squeaked. “I am so glad to see you again. I have not yet thanked you for saving—”

“An honor, I assure you,” said John.

“Sir John?” said Tony, eyebrows gyrating. “Saving—?”

I gave up on introductions. I gave up on everything.

I can’t say that the next few minutes were comfortable. Tony refused to sit down; he stood in the middle of the living room like a Puritan divine about to thunder denunciations, and demanded the telephone. “I’ll start calling hotels,” he said stiffly.

“But my dear chap!” John’s smile was a study in guileless good will. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” said Tony.

“No, no. I must be off myself shortly; delighted to know Vicky will have someone to keep her company.”

They went on like that for a while, with Schmidt listening in openmouthed fascination, until I got tired of the badinage.

“Sit down, Tony,” I said sharply. “John, why don’t you get us something to drink?”

I gave him a hearty shove to emphasize the suggestion, and followed him into the kitchen. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to be a good host.” John opened the refrigerator. “What are we serving?”