For a few minutes, Timuroff had been hearing the sounds of busyness outside, a rise and fall of voices, occasionally a few that were peremptory, and stampings up and down. Now someone tried the door, waited a moment, tried harder. There was a knock.
“It sounds as though they’ve come downstairs and are out looking for you,” he told the doctor. “What do we do now?”
The knock was repeated, and a hoarse voice shouted, “Dr. Grimwood? Are you in there, sir? I’m Rop Millweed of the Chronicle. I’d sure appreciate a moment of your time.”
“I’ll be the sacrificial lamb,” offered Timuroff. “I can run out tell them you aren’t here, and bring Pete to the rescue.”
The doctor’s mood changed instantly. He leaped up, a sudden pixyish smile on his lips. “Don’t worry—they’ll never find us in this house if
