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from Leslie Harrington. Afraid. And he began to understand, a little, the emptiness that filled Leslie's life.
    â€œWe could help you,” said Seth finally.
    â€œHow? What can we do?” asked Leslie.
    â€œWe can put advertisements in the personal columns of the newspapers,” said Seth.
    â€œAh-h,” said Leslie disgustedly. “That was one of the first things I tried. I had ads in every paper in towns from the Canadian border clear down to Boston.”
    Seth leaned back in his chair. “Leslie,” he said, “go into any house on Ash Street, or into the home of any of your mill hands, for that matter, and look at the newspapers they read. They don't buy the Boston Herald or the Concord Monitor. They buy tabloids. Either the Boston Record or the New York Daily News or other newspapers like them. Those are the papers with all the stories about knife killings in Harlem and rapes in the Back Bay, the gossip columns about people in New York and Hollywood. I'll bet anything that wherever Betty Anderson is, if she buys a newspaper at all, she buys one of those.”
    â€œWhat if she doesn't read the personal columns?” said Dr. Swain. “I imagine that there are a lot of folks who don't.”
    â€œMaybe not,” said Seth. “But she reads Winchell, I'm sure of it. Leslie, you could buy an inch of space on the same page as Winchell's column in every newspaper in the country that publishes him.”
    â€œThat'll cost you something, Leslie,” said Charles Partridge, who, some said, took better care of other people's money than he did of his own.
    â€œCan you fix it up, Seth?” asked Leslie.
    â€œYes,” said Seth. “Not from here. I've got to go down to Manchester, day after tomorrow. I'll do it from there.”
    â€œNow we'll see,” said Leslie, and smiled at his friends. “Now we'll see.”
    When Leslie and Charles had left, Matthew Swain helped himself to another drink and then extended the bottle to Seth.
    â€œWhat do you think about Leslie, Seth?” he asked. “Do you think he means what he says?”
    Seth gazed at his friend. “Well, for Christ's sake, Matt, it was you telling me to shut up in the beginning when I didn't believe him. Now that he's got me convinced, you turn around and ask if I think he means what he says.”
    Dr. Swain smiled. “I guess what I really was wondering was whether I believe him.”
    â€œWhat is it, Matt?”
    Matt made a gesture of self annoyance with his hand. “Oh, hell,” he said. “I guess I've known Leslie Harrington for too many years and I'm cursed with one of those long memories I'm always yapping at other people about. Don't pay any attention to me, Seth.”
    â€œNo, you don't,” cried Seth. “Don't pull that on me, you old bastard. Now what the hell are you driving at?”
    Matt Swain looked down into his drink. “I keep remembering,” he said. “I keep remembering how Leslie never could stand to be beaten at anything. Not even when he was a kid.”
    â€œBut he did get beaten,” Seth said. “The worst beating a man could take, just about. He lost his son, Matt. His only son. It changed him, you know that. He's never been the same.”
    â€œLike I said, Seth. Don't pay any attention to me. It's been a big day and I'm tired to the point of imagining things.”
    But when Matthew Swain went to bed, he was wondering. Does the leopard change his spots, or does he merely camouflage himself by hiding behind something? Behind something that would fool even the most observant eye. Matt groaned aloud. Like Leslie, he was alone. Whether he groaned or roared with laughter, no one would be disturbed. Matt was haunted by nothing but loneliness, and he had decided he was too old to take the cure.
7
    R OBERTA C ARTER SAT up in her bed so silently that the top sheet barely rustled against her nightgown. She looked across the narrow