ONE

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      There was nothing to indicate anything unusual that Tuesday morning in the life of Wade Forsythe II, ex-lieutenant of Marines in the late if not the last war and now member of the bar. There was no poetry in his soul, no particular love in his heart. There was, on the contrary, a look of concentrated hatred in his good-looking face as he sat down at his desk and glared at the red-bound book which was the Revenue Act of 1951.

      His secretary, Miss Potter, accustomed to the Ides of March, was unperturbed.

      "Take that mail out of my sight," Forsythe more or less snarled. "And see that I have a free morning. Do you know what date this is?"

      Miss Potter indicated she did, and picked up the wire basket of correspondence.

      "You understand, Potter. Nobody sees me. I'm out of town. I'm sick in bed. I broke my leg. And tell Stella, in case you have to powder your nose."

      Miss Potter told Stella. That is, she said she hoped she would come through the next ten days without a heart attack or possibly mayhem on the person. And for heaven's sake why didn't the Government stagger its returns? This giving the whole country jitters one day in the year was an outrage.

      "And if I'm out, don't let anybody in the office," she warned. "Not unless you want your nose bit off."

      Which makes the more unusual what followed.

      Forsythe was studying something concerning a collapsible corporation, which need not interest us here—or ever—when he heard someone rapping rather desperately on the door leading to the hall. He was about to ring furiously for Miss Potter when it ceased to be necessary. The door opened and a young woman projected herself into the room.

      For a moment she said nothing. She stood listening intently with her back to him. Then she turned and came toward him. She was breathing hard.

      "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I thought this was the reception room."

      "The sign on the door says 'Private,'" he told her coldly. "If you have an appointment—"

      She shook her head, and as though her legs would not hold her she sat down suddenly. Forsythe thought she was about to faint, but she rallied. She tried to smile.

      "Just let me get my breath," she said. "I—I suppose I hurried, rather."

      She was still pale, however, and he saw she was trembling. Something had frightened her, and frightened her badly. And since he was, outside of tax cases, a rather amiable young man, he got up hastily.

      "Wait a minute," he said. "I'll get something to fix you up. Just sit still."

      He disappeared into the small lavatory off the office and came back with a bottle and two glasses. Into one he poured a fair shot of brandy and held it out to her.

      "Down with it," he ordered peremptorily. "Then the water. You'll be all right."

      She choked a little, but obeyed him, and after a moment or two her color began to come back. Her voice, too, was stronger.

      "Do you mind locking that door?" she asked. "The one where I came in?"

      "Of course not. It's supposed to be left locked. These night cleaning women—"

      She watched him as he fastened the door, and then went around to sit behind his desk. She perplexed him. She was rather lovely, he thought dispassionately, in spite of her evident terror. In spite, too, of her shabbiness, the worn gloves and handbag, and the inexpensive suit. It was quite clear also that she did not have taxes on her mind.

      "Now," he said, as her color came back, "what's it all about? The police aren't after you, are they?"

      "The police?" She looked surprised. "Why the police?"

      He smiled.

      "Well, when a young woman bolts through a door marked 'Private' and then tries to faint, I wonder a little. That's all."

      "Just because I came through the wrong door!" she said indignantly. "Actually I came to see you professionally, Mr. Forsythe. I—I have a problem. You see, I want to draw up a will."

      It was the last thing he expected, although he was rapidly revising his opinion of her. Shabby or not, she was a lady. Her voice was cultured, her diction impeccable, and had she not been too thin she might have been beautiful. Nevertheless, the idea of a will made him smile again.

      "You look pretty healthy," he said. "Pretty young, too. Why a will?"

      "I can't tell you," she said flatly. "And I'm not so young. I'm twenty-seven. Everybody should make a will. You're a lawyer. You know that."

      He eyed her dubiously.

      "It depends. Sometimes a will is a nuisance. Of course, if there's considerable property at stake—"

      "There