``What?''

Deliberately, she ignored the yelp. ``Also, that Mr. Ferguson was here. I guess he wants to ask you some questions. I stalled him off. He doesn't expect you until five.''

``Then I'd better wait until five.''

``No. Come home right away.'' She slapped the receiver into its holder and stepped away. Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

In his office, Mr. Holden replaced the phone slowly. He rose from his chair. He had to cough then; he went to the window and choked there with the fresh breeze on his face. He got his hat out of the closet. For a moment he thought of going into Crosson's office to explain that he had to leave, but there was now such a pain in his chest, such a pounding in his head, that he decided to let it go. He passed the receptionist in the outer office, muttering, ``I've got to go out for a little while.'' Let her call Crosson if she wanted to, let Crosson raise the roof or even can him, he didn't care.

He got into the car. Putting the key into the switch, pressing the accelerator with his foot, putting the car into reverse, seemed vast endeavors almost beyond the ability of his shaking body. Once out in the street, the traffic was a gadfly maze in which he wandered stricken. When he turned into the highway that led to the outskirts of the city and then rose toward home, he had to pull over to the curb and wait for a few minutes, sucking in air and squinting and blinking his eyes to clear them of tears.