Hoag turned to Cynthia. “What do you think, Mrs. Randall?”
“I think Teddy is right. If I knew enough about hypnotism, we would try that-but I don’t, so scopolamine is the next best bet. Are you willing to try it?”
“If you say so, yes.”
“Get the kit, Teddy.” She jumped down from where she had been perched, on the edge of his desk. He put out a hand to catch her.
“You ought to take it easy, baby,” he complained.
“Nonsense, I’m all right-now.”
They had adjourned to their business office almost as soon as Cynthia woke up. To put it plainly, they were scared-scared still, but not scared silly. The apartment seemed an unhealthy place to be. The office did not seem much better. Randall and Cynthia had decided to get out of town-the stop at the office was a penultimate stop, for a conference of war.
Hoag did not know what to do.
“Just forget you ever saw this kit,” Randall warned him, as he prepared the hypodermic. “Not being a doctor, nor an anaesthetist, I shouldn’t have it. But it’s convenient, sometimes.” He scrubbed a spot of Hoag’s forearm with an alcohol swab. “Steady now-there!” He shoved the needle.
They waited for the drug to take hold. “What do you expect to get,” Randall whispered to Cynthia.
“I don’t know. If we’re lucky, his two personalities will knit. Then we may find out a lot of things.”
A little later Hoag’s head sagged forward; he breathed heavily. She stepped forward and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Hoag-do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Jonathan . . . Hoag.”
“Where do you live?”
“Six-oh-two-Gotham Apartments.”
“What do you do?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Try to remember. What is your profession?”
No answer. She tried again. “Are you a hypnotist?”
“No.”
“Are you a-magician?”
The answer was delayed a little, but finally came. “No.”
“What are you, Jonathan Haag?”
He opened his mouth, seemed about to answer-then sat up suddenly, his manner brisk and completely free of the lassitude normal to the drug. “I’m sorry, my dear, but this will have to stop-for the present.”
He stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. “Bad,” he said, glancing up and down the street. “How distressingly bad.” He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to them. Cynthia and Randall looked at him, then to each other for help.
“What is bad, Mr. Hoag?” Cynthia asked, rather diffidently. She did not have the impression analyzed, but he seemed like another person-younger, more vibrant.
“Eh? Oh, I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation. I was forced to, uh, dispense with the drug.”
“Dispense with it?”
“Throw it off, ignore it, make it as nothing. You see, my dear, while you were talking I recalled my profession.” He looked at them cheerily, but offered no further explanation.
Randall was the first to recover. “What is your profession?”
Hoag smiled at him, almost tenderly. “It wouldn’t do to tell you,” he said. “Not now, at least.” He turned to Cynthia. “My dear, could I trouble you for a pencil and a sheet of paper?”
“Uh-why, certainly.” She got them for him; he accepted them graciously and, seating himself, began to write.
When he said nothing to explain his conduct Randall spoke up, “Say, Hoag, look here-” Hoag turned a serene face to him; Randall started to speak, seemed puzzled by what he saw in Hoag’s face, and concluded lamely, “Er . . . Mr. Hoag, what’s this all about?”
“Are you not willing to trust me?”
Randall chewed his lip for a moment and looked at him; Hoag was patient and serene. “Yes . . . I suppose I am,” he said at last.
“Good. I am making a list of some things I want you to buy for me. I shall be quite busy for the next two hours or so.”
“You are leaving us?”
“You are worried about the Sons of the Bird, aren’t you? Forget them. They will not harm you. I promise it.” He resumed writing. Some minutes later he handed the list to Randall. “I’ve noted at the bottom the place where you are to meet me-a filling station outside Waukegan.”