For another second or two he gave in to the annoyance that was directed at himself; then his mind moved on to be confronted by something far more serious, and as the thought expanded, the implications jarred him. It no longer mattered that Burton had outsmarted him. The important thing was that Burton had gone somewhere to meet a blackmailer with a gun in his pocket. And that gun was empty.

Even before his mind had rounded out the idea, he thrust one hand into his trousers pocket and pulled out the six slugs he had taken from the revolver. He considered them with brooding eyes, brows bunched as his brain grappled with the problem and tried to find some solution. He said: ``The crazy fool,'' half aloud. He put the shells on the table, as though he could no longer bear to hold them. He thought: Where the hell could he have gone? How can I find him?

There was no answer to this and he began to pace back and forth across the room, his imagination out of control. He tried to tell himself that maybe Burton had sobered up enough to get some sense. Maybe he only intended to scare the blackmailer, whoever he was, in which case an unloaded gun would be good enough. He thought of other possibilities, none of them satisfactory, and finally he began to think, to wonder if there was some way he could reach Burton. Then, as he turned toward the telephone, it rang shrilly to shatter the stillness in the room and he reached for it eagerly.