his car, climbed in, turned on
the ignition, and lit a cigarette, the notion was still with him and
Barney was no longer smiling. Fanciful it was, extremely so.
Impossible, in the strict sense, it was not. The longer he played it
around, the more he began to wonder whether his notion mightn't hold
water after all. If there was anything to it, he had run into one of
the biggest deals in history.

Later Barney realized he would still have let the matter drop there if
it hadn't been for other things, having nothing to do with Dr.
McAllen. He was between operations at present. His time wasn't
occupied. Furthermore he'd been aware lately that ordinary operations
had begun to feel flat. The kick of putting over a deal, even on some
other hard, bright character of his own class, unaccountably was
fading. Barney Chard was somewhat frightened because the operator game
was the only one he'd ever found interesting; the other role of
well-heeled playboy wasn't much more than a manner of killing time. At
thirty-seven he was realizing he was bored with life. He didn't like
the prospect.

Now here was something which might again provide him with some genuine
excitement. It could be simply his imagination working overtime, but
it wasn't going to do any harm to find out. Mind humming with pleased
though still highly skeptical speculations, Barney went back to the
boat station and inquired when the party boat was due to return.

He was waiting for it, well out of sight, as it came chugging up to
the wharf some hours later. He had never had anything to do directly
with Dr. McAllen, so the old man wouldn't recognize him. But he didn't
want to be spotted by his two amazons who might feel refreshed enough
by now to be ready for another tour of the town.

He needn't have worried. The ladies barely made it to the top of the
stairs; they phoned for a cab and were presently whisked away. Dr.
McAllen meanwhile also had made a telephone call, and settled down not
far from Barney to wait. A small gray car, five or six years old but
of polished and well-tended appearance, trundled presently up the
pier, came into the turnaround at the boat station, and stopped. A
thin old Negro, with hair as white as the doctor's, held the door open
for McAllen. The car moved unhurriedly off with them.

The automobile's license number produced Dr. McAllen's California
address for Barney a short while later. The physicist lived in
Sweetwater Beach, fifteen minu