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decided, was derived from a recent television thriller, the writing was obviously disguised. It was possible that the police would be able to provide him with some more samples of the suspect's handwriting when they visited the lad's place of work, but he didn't really need them. The similarities between the threatening note and the samples were unmistakable. The writer had tried to alter the slant of his hand and had changed the shape of the small r. But the lifts of the pen came regularly at every fourth letter--Middlemass had never found a forger who remembered to vary the interval at which he lifted pen from paper-and the dot above the i, high and slightly to the left, and the over-emphatic apostrophe were almost a trade-mark. He would analyse the paper sample, photograph and enlarge each individual letter and then mount them on a comparison chart, and the jury would pass it solemnly from hand to hand and wonder why it needed a highly paid expert to come and explain what anyone could see with his own eyes.
    The telephone rang. Middlemass stretched out a long arm and held the instrument to his left ear. Susan Bradley's voice, at first apologetic then conspiratorial and finally close to tears, squeaked into his ear in a long monologue of complaint and desperation. He listened, made soft encouraging noises, held the receiver an inch or two from his ear, and meanwhile noted that the writer, poor bastard, hadn't even thought of altering the distinctive cross-bar of his small letter t. Not that it would have done any good. And he couldn't have known, poor devil, that his effort would feature as an exhibit in his trial for murder.
    "All right," he said. "Don't worry. Leave it to me."
    "And you won't let him know that I phoned you?"
    "Of course not, Susan. Relax. I'll settle it."
    The voice crackled on.
    "Then tell him not to be a fool, for God's sake. Hasn't he noticed that we've got one and a half million unemployed? Lorrimer can't sack him. Tell Clifford to hang on to his job and stop being a bloody fool.
    I'll deal with Lorrimer."
    He replaced the receiver. He had liked Susan Moffat who, for two years, had worked for him as his S.O. She had both more brains and more guts than her husband, and he had wondered, without greatly caring, why she had married Bradley. Pity probably, and an over-developed maternal instinct. There were some women who simply had to take the unfortunate literally to their breast. Or perhaps it was just lack of choice, the need for a home of her own and a child. Well, it was too late to try and stop the marriage now, and it certainly hadn't occurred to him to try at the time. And at least she had the home and the kid. She had brought the baby to the Lab to see him only a fortnight ago. The visit of the prune-faced yelling bundle had done nothing to change his own resolution not to produce a child, but certainly Susan herself had seemed happy enough. And she would probably be happy again if something could be done about Lorrimer.
    He thought that the time had perhaps come to do something about Lorrimer. And he had, after all, his own private reason for taking on the job. It was a small personal obligation, and to date it hadn't particularly fretted what he supposed other people called conscience.
    But Susan Bradley's call had reminded him. He listened. The footsteps were familiar. Well, it was a coincidence, but better now than later.
    Moving to the door he called at the retreating back:
    "Lorrimer. I want a word with you." Lorrimer came and stood inside the door, tall, unsmiling in his carefully buttoned white coat, and regarded Middlemass with his dark, wary eyes. Middlemass made himself look into them, and then turned his glance away. The irises had seemed to dilate into black pools of despair. It was not an emotion he felt competent to deal with, and he felt discomforted. What on earth was eating the poor devil? He said, carefully casual:
    "Look, Lorrimer, lay off Bradley will you? I know he's not