ection and picked up the overgrown grass and unkempt shrubbery of
the village park, he was convinced that he had. Then he saw the girl
walking the dog.

He kitty-cornered the intersection and pulled up alongside her. She was
a blonde, tall and chic in a gray fall suit. Her face was
attractive--beautiful even, in a cold and classic way--but she would
never see twenty-five again. But then, Philip would never again see
thirty. When she paused, her dog paused too, although she did not have
it on a leash. It was on the small side, tawny in hue, with golden-brown
eyes, a slender white-tipped tail, and shaggy ears that hung down on
either side of its face in a manner reminiscent of a cocker spaniel's.
It wasn't a cocker spaniel, though. The ears were much too long, for one
thing, and the tail was much too delicate, for another. It was a
breed--or combination of breeds--that Philip had never seen before.

He leaned across the seat and rolled down the right-hand window. "Could
you direct me to number 23 Locust Street?" he asked. "It's the residence
of Judith Darrow, the village attorney. Maybe you know her."

The girl gave a start. "Are _you_ the real-estate man I sent for?"

Philip gave a start, too. Recovering himself, he said, "Then _you're_
Judith Darrow. I'm ... I'm afraid I'm a little late."

The girl's eyes flashed. The radiant backwash of the headlights revealed
them to be both green and gray. "I specified in my letter that you were
supposed to be here at nine o'clock this morning!" she said. "Maybe
you'll tell me how you're going to appraise property in the dark!"

"I'm sorry," Philip said. "My car broke down on the way, and I had to
wait for it to be fixed. When I tried to call you, the operator told me
that your phone had been disconnected. If you'll direct me to the hotel,
I'll stay there overnight and appraise your property in the morning.
There _is_ a hotel, isn't there?"

"There is--but it's closed. Zarathustra--down!" The dog had raised up on
its hind legs and placed its forepaws on the door in an unsuccessful
attempt to peer in the window. At the girl's command, it sank obediently
down on its haunches. "Except for Zarathustra and myself," she went on,
"the village is empty. Everyone else has already moved out, and we'd
have moved out, too, if I hadn't been entrusted with arranging for the
sale of the business places and the houses. It makes for a rather
awkward situation."

She had leaned forward, and th