"No, we didn't," said Marshall. "Could you describe this boy?"

"Well, he was—well, not more than ten years old, if that. And he—well, it has been a long time, as Mr. Featherhall said. He was just a child, a normal average child."

"Not exactly average," said Stevenson cryptically.

"You said he was in here with his mother," said Marshall.

"That's right. I've seen her in here a number of times."

"Yes, of course," said Marshall.

"Has she been here since the robbery?" asked Stevenson.

"Yes, I believe she has."

"So that you would recognize her if you saw her again."

"Yes, I would. I'm sure I would. She almost always comes in with the boy. Or, no, she doesn't, not any more. Not since school started. But she did all summer."

"She comes in often, then."

"I believe so," said Miss English. "Fairly often."

Marshall produced a small card, which he handed to Miss English. "The next time she comes in," he said, "we'd appreciate it if you'd call us at that number. Ask for me, Mr. Marshall."

"I will," said Miss English. "I surely will."

The four of them sat talking in Marshall's office.

Tom Roberts had his shoes off, his feet on the windowsill, his spine curved into the chair and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He had one eye closed and was sighting between his socked feet at the building across the way.

"The thing that bothers me," he said, the cigarette waggling in his mouth, "is just that I'm sure as I can be that I'll never get to write a word of this story. You gimlet-eyed types will clamp down on this kid, and that'll be the end of it. Security, by George. National defense. I wonder whatever happened to freedom of the press."

"The press overworked it," 

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