He passed the volume over, and the stranger—or Haines—scanned it carefully, but got no more out of it than the other’s summary, except for the fact that he was forty-two years old. He put the book back on the desk, and reached for his wallet, laying a bill on the pad where the other could reach it.
“Thank you, Dr. Lanahan.” There was obviously nothing more the doctor could do for him, and the odor of the little room and the doctor was stifling him; apparently he was allergic to the smell of other men. “Never mind the cut on the head—it’s purely superficial.”
“But—”
Haines shrugged and mustered a smile, reached for the door, and made for the outside again. The urge was gone now, replaced by a vast sense of gloom, and he knew that his mission had ended in failure.
***
They knew so littl
