There had been a disturbing double victory dinner at Rabun’s. The evening had nearly caused an anxiety attack though there had been a certain amount of forewarning. Diana was a local candidate, and among the remaining half dozen nominees, for a full scholarship for four years of medical school. The scholarship was intended to encourage talented nurses. The other occasion for celebration was the payment of Warlock’s commission on the initial restitution the crooked lumberman was making in an attempt to stay out of Jackson Prison. What was there to celebrate? he wondered, as Diana and Rabun chatted about what medical school would be best suited for her. Number one in his mind was the suspense of waiting three months to see if she won. He had always wanted to know the endings of movies before he went. And what was he going to do with the seven grand cash to add to the canister of wages in the basement? Tax avoidance was a two-edged sword. And there was another upsetting factor: Rabun somehow knew about his diet and had presented an elaborate cuisine minceur dinner: a seviche of scallops, a dainty asparagus mousse, a single braised, boned quail on a bed of watercress, a dessert of red currant sherbet. All the dishes were faultless but the lack of volume after so much anticipation was utterly cruel. A single bottle of Montrachet, which Rabun appeared to hog, was also unfair; their conversation had now elapsed into the intricacies of surgical equipment, leaving him to tweedle his hungry thumbs. Anger rose slowly from deep in his empty craw.

“If I don’t get a great big brandy I’m going to faint.” He forced a smile as they turned to him, mildly alarmed.

“Why, of course. Please forgive me. I thought your counting calories precluded booze.” Rabun hopped to a sideboard. He set a full bottle and snifter in front of Warlock.

Later, on the way home, Warlock had offered everything from amok biorhythms to low blood sugar as an excuse for his behavior. There was absolutely no question that the paltry meal had been an ineffective cushion for the amount of brandy that had landed on it. He had gone on a longish walk with Rabun’s two guard dogs to clear his head and to avoid further shooting off his mouth. The brutes pranced along merrily beside him until a dim memory arose; he lit a match to check his watch—five minutes short of eleven o’clock when the dogs would become killers. All his recent running and jogging saved him as he burst toward the house in a 440-yard dash. Diana and Rabun jumped up when he came through the door.

“Dogs. Eleven. I forgot,” he wheezed.

“For god’s sake, man, I put the alarm on manual when I have guests.”

“What if you forgot?” Fear was being displaced by embarrassment.

“I never forget. It’s too important.”