Cynthia looked at him wildly. “Tragedy? You say ‘tragedy’?”
He looked at her with eyes that were not pitying, but serenely appreciative. “What else could it be, my dear?”
She stared at him, then turned and buried her face on the lapel of her husband’s coat. Randall patted her head. “Stop it, Hoag!” he said savagely. “You’ve frightened her again.”
“I did not wish to.”
“You have. And I can tell you what I think of your story. It’s got holes in it you can throw a cat through. You made it up.”
“You do not believe that.”
It was true; Randall did not. But he went on bravely, his hand still soothing his wife. “The stuff under your nails-how about that? I noticed you left that out. And your fingerprints.”
“The stuff under my nails has little to do with the story. It served its purpose, which was to make fearful the Sons of the Bird. They knew what it was.”
“But what was it?”
“The ichor of the Sons-planted there by my other persona. But what is this about fingerprints? Jonathan Hoag was honestly fearful of having them taken; Jonathan Hoag is a man, Edward. You must remember that.”
Randall told him; Hoag nodded. “I see. Truthfully, I do not recall it, even today, although my full persona knows of it. Jonathan Hoag had a nervous habit of polishing things with his handkerchief; perhaps he polished the arm of your chair.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“Nor do I.”
Randall took up the fight again. “That isn’t all and that isn’t half of it. What about the rest home you said you were in? And who pays you? Where do you get your money? Why was Cynthia always so darned scared of you?”
Hoag looked out towards the city; a fog was rolling in from the lake. “There is little time for these things,” he said, “and it does not matter, even to you, whether you believe or not. But you do believe-you cannot help it. But you have brought up another matter. Here.” He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to Randall. “You might as well take them with you; I shall have no more use for them. I shall be leaving you in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to myself. After I leave, you must do this: Get into your car and drive at once, south, through the city. Under no circumstances open a window of your car until you are miles away from the city.”
“Why? I don’t like this.”
“Nevertheless, do it. There will be certain-changes, readjustments going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you, did I not, that the Sons of the Bird are being dealt with? They, and all their works.”
“How?”
Hoag did not answer, but stared again at the fog. It was creeping up on the city. “I think I must go now. Do as I have told you to do.” He started to turn away. Cynthia lifted up her face and spoke to him.
“Don’t go! Not yet.”
“Yes, my dear?”
“You must tell me one thing: Will Teddy and I be together?”
He looked into her eyes and said. “I see what you mean. I don’t know.”
“But you must know!”
“I do not know. If you are both creatures of this world, then your patterns may run alike. But there are the Critics, you know.”
“The Critics? What have they to do with us?”
“One, or the other, or both of you may be Critics. I would not know. Remember, the Critics are men-here. I did not even know myself as one until today.” He looked at Randall meditatively. “He may be one. I suspected it once today.”
“Am-I?”
“I have no way of knowing. It is most unlikely. You see, we can’t know each other, for it would spoil our artistic judgment.”
“But . . . but . . . if we are not the same, then-”
“That is all.” He said it, not emphatically, but with such a sound of finality that they were both startled. He bent over the remains of the feast and selected one more grape, ate it, and closed his eyes.