looked out over the East
River. "It's beautiful."

"_Isn't_ it?"

"If I went right into research--took a job somewhere--I could afford to
give this to you."

She thought of saying, _But, darling, I've got it already_, and decided
a change of subject would be more judicious and said, "You _were_
kidding last night, weren't you?"

"Kidding?"

"About the man with two hearts."

Frank grinned a little sheepishly. He was extremely handsome and totally
unconscious of it, and when he grinned that way it made him look like a
little boy caught stealing jam, and Rhoda always wanted to hug him. But
she forebore as he said, "It does seem a little silly, doesn't it?"

"You'd know more about that than I do. Is it silly?"

"Let's say the chances of such a thing happening are rather remote."

"You only used your stethoscope last night?"

"That was all. I went by what I heard."

"What will you do now? X-ray?"

"I'm not sure I'll do anything. The idea is so preposterous."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "It's not like you to lose interest in
anything until you know the answer."

He snubbed out his cigarette. "Let's forget Park Hill and funny
anatomies, baby. Let's sit on the terrace and bathe ourselves in luxury
the way the TV ad says."

And that was the way things stayed for two hours. The time passed
swiftly, and when Frank was finally dressed and ready for the street, he
refused Rhoda's offer to drive him to the hospital because she was very
late, too. He kissed her good-bye, went down the twelve floors in the
elevator, and hurried out of the building.

There was no cab in sight and he began to walk. Half a block later he
turned a corner and stopped dead. He was facing a man who was coming in
the other direction. He stared. The man stared back. Frank automatically
stepped aside, but the man did exactly the same thing, at the same time,
and they did a little dance there on the sidewalk. Then the man veered
around him and moved on up the street. Frank turned and stared after
him, then walked slowly in his own direction.

It was the same man. It was the Park Avenue hit. It was the man he'd
left in Ward Five with a broken leg. It wasn't a brother or a cousin or
a chance resemblance. It was the man himself or an exact double. And
what were the percentages against attending a patient one night and
meeting his exact double on the street the next morning?

They were fantastic. Like hitting the Irish sweeps.

It was th