else?"

"Why, of course not!" Goode exclaimed. "That's just what I was telling
you. I--" He took a fresh start. "There have been rumors--utterly without
foundation, of course--that Mr. Fleming committed suicide. They are, I
may say, nothing but malicious fabrications, circulated for the purpose
of undermining public confidence in Premix Foods, Incorporated. I had
thought that perhaps Mrs. Fleming might have heard them, and decided, on
her own responsibility, to bring you in to scotch them; I was afraid that
such a step might, by giving these rumors fresh currency, defeat its
intended purpose."

"Oh, nothing of the sort!" Rand told him. "I'm not in the least
interested in how Mr. Fleming was killed, and the question is simply
not involved in what Mrs. Fleming wants me to do."

He stopped there. Goode was looking at him sideways, sucking in one
corner of his mouth and pushing out the other. It was not a facial
contortion that impressed Rand favorably; it was too reminiscent of
a high-school principal under whom he had suffered, years ago, in
Vicksburg, Mississippi. Rand began to suspect that Goode might be just
another such self-righteous, opinionated, egotistical windbag. Such men
could be dangerous, were usually quite unscrupulous, and were almost
always unpleasant to deal with.

"Then why," the lawyer demanded, "did Mrs. Fleming employ you?"

"Well, as you know," Rand began, "the Fleming pistol-collection, now the
joint property of Mrs. Fleming and her two stepdaughters, is an extremely
valuable asset. Mr. Fleming spent the better part of his life gathering