it and with teeth set, he ransacked the studio, resentfully flinging a
melee of hindrances right and left.

The telephone rang.

"Kenny," said Garry's patient voice, "what in Heaven's name are you
doing? What hit the wall?"

"I'm hunting the stick to that damned psaltery," snapped Kenny and
banged the receiver into the hook, one hand as usual clenched
frenziedly in his hair.

Later, with the studio a record of earthquake, he found it under a
model stand and wiping his forehead anchored it to the psaltery for
good and all with a shoestring.

Horribly depressed he thumped on the wall for Garry, who came at once,
wondering wryly if Brian had come in and the need again was mediation.

"You might as well know," began Kenny at once, "that Brian didn't go up
to Reynolds for me this noon--"

Garry stared.

"It was a lie," flung out Kenny with a jerk, "a damnable, deliberate,
indecent lie. Whitaker says he's gone for good." His look was wistful
and indignant. "Garry, what's wrong?" he demanded. "What on earth
_is_ it? Why couldn't things have gone on as they were, without God
knows how many people picking _me_ for a target? As far as I can see
I'm merely maintaining my usual average of imperfection and all the