“No,” Randall said miserably. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about doctors. We never need one. But you ought to know whether he’s any good or not — it was Potbury.”
“Potbury? You mean the Dr. Potbury I consulted? How did you happen to pick him?”
“Well, we didn’t know any doctors — and we had been to see him, checking up on your story. What have you got against Potbury?”
“Nothing, really. He was rude to me — or so I thought.”
“Well, then, what’s he got against you?”
“I don’t see how he could have anything against me,” Hoag answered in puzzled tones. “I only saw him once. Except, of course, the matter of the analysis. Though why he should — ” He shrugged helplessly.
“You mean about the stuff under your nails? I thought that was just a song and dance.”
“No.”
“Anyhow it couldn’t be just that. After all the things he said about you.”
“What did he say about me?”
“He said — ” Randall stopped, realizing that Potbury had not said anything specific against Hoag; it had been entirely what he did not say. “It wasn’t so much what he said; it was how he felt about you. He hates you, Hoag — and he is afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me?” Hoag smiled feebly, as if he were sure Randall must be joking.
“He didn’t say so, but it was plain as daylight.”
Hoag shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I’m more used to being afraid of people than of having them afraid of me. Wait — did he tell you the results of the analysis he made for me?”
“No. Say, that reminds me of the queerest thing of all about you, Hoag.” He broke off, thinking of the impossible adventure of the thirteenth floor. “Are you a hypnotist?”
“Gracious, no! Why do you ask?”
Randall told him the story of their first attempt to shadow him. Hoag kept quiet through the recital, his face intent and bewildered. “And that’s the size of it,” Randall concluded emphatically. “No thirteenth floor, no Detheridge & Co., no nothing! And yet I remember every detail of it as plainly as I see your face.”
“That’s all?”
“Isn’t that enough? Still, there is one more thing I might add. It can’t be of real importance, except in showing the effect the experience had on me.”
“What is it?”
“Wait a minute.”
Randall got up and went again into the bedroom. He was not quite so careful this time to open the door the bare minimum, although he did close it behind him. It made him nervous, in one way, not to be constantly at Cynthia’s side; yet had he been able to answer honestly he would have been forced to admit that even Hoag’s presence was company and some relief to his anxiety. Consciously, he excused his conduct as an attempt to get to the bottom of their troubles.
He listened for her heartbeats again. Satisfied that she still was in this world, he plumped her pillow and brushed vagrant hair up from her face. He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly, then went quickly out of the room.
Hoag was waiting. “Yes?” he inquired.
Randall sat down heavily and rested his head on his hands. “Still the same.” Hoag refrained from making a useless answer; presently Randall commenced in a tired voice to tell him of the nightmares he had experienced the last two nights. “Mind you, I don’t say they are significant,” he added, when he had done. “I’m not superstitious.”
“I wonder,” Hoag mused.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean anything supernatural, but isn’t it possible that the dreams were not entirely accidental ones, brought on by your experiences? I mean to say, if there is someone who can make you dream the things you dreamed in the Acme Building in broad daylight, why couldn’t they force you to dream at night as well?”
“Huh?”
“Is there anyone who hates you, Mr. Randall?”
“Why, not that I know of. Of course, in my business, you sometimes do things that don’t exactly make friends, but you do it for somebody else. There’s a crook or two who doesn’t like me any too well, but — well, they couldn’t do anything like this. It doesn’t make sense. Anybody hate you? Besides Potbury?”