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place.
    Doctor Winter looked up at the clock and said, “They are early. Let them in, Joseph.”
    Joseph went to the door and opened it. A soldier stepped in, dressed in a long coat. He was helmeted and he carried a sub-machine gun over his arm. He glanced quickly about and then stepped aside. Behind him an officer stood in the doorway. The officer’s uniform was common and it had rank showing only on the shoulders.
    The officer stepped inside and looked at Doctor Winter. He was rather like an overdrawn picture of an English gentleman. He had a slouch, his face was red, his nose long but rather pleasing; he seemed about as unhappy in his uniform as most British general officers are. He stood in the doorway, staring at Doctor Winter, and he said, “Are you Mayor Orden, sir?”
    Doctor Winter smiled. “No, no, I am not.”
    â€œYou are an official, then?”
    â€œNo, I am the town doctor and I am a friend of the Mayor.”
    The officer said, “Where is Mayor Orden?”
    â€œDressing to receive you. You are the colonel?”
    â€œNo, I am not. I am Captain Bentick.” He bowed and Doctor Winter returned the bow slightly. Captain Bentick continued, as though a little embarrassed at what he had to say. “Our military regulations, sir, prescribe that we search for weapons before the commanding officer enters a room. We mean no disrespect, sir.” And he called over his shoulder, “Sergeant!”
    The sergeant moved quickly to Joseph, ran his hands over his pockets, and said, “Nothing, sir.”
    Captain Bentick said to Doctor Winter, “I hope you will pardon us.” And the sergeant went to Doctor Winter and patted his pockets. His hands stopped at the inside coat pocket. He reached quickly in, brought out a little, flat, black leather case, and took it to Captain Bentick. Captain Bentick opened the case and found there a few simple surgical instruments—two scalpels, some surgical needles, some clamps, a hypodermic needle. He closed the case again and handed it back to Doctor Winter.
    Doctor Winter said, “You see, I am a country doctor. One time I had to perform an appendectomy with a kitchen knife. I have always carried these with me since then.”
    Captain Bentick said, “I believe there are some firearms here?” He opened a little leather book that he carried in his pocket.
    Doctor Winter said, “You are thorough.”
    â€œYes, our local man has been working here for some time.”
    Doctor Winter said, “I don’t suppose you would tell who that man is?”
    Bentick said, “His work is all done now. I don’t suppose there would be any harm in telling. His name is Corell.”
    And Doctor Winter said in astonishment, “George Corell? Why, that seems impossible! He’s done a lot for this town. Why, he even gave prizes for the shooting-match in the hills this morning.” And as he said it his eyes began to understand what had happened and his mouth closed slowly, and he said, “I see; that is why he gave the shooting-match. Yes, I see. But George Corell—that sounds impossible!”
    The door to the left opened and Mayor Orden came in; he was digging in his right ear with his little finger. He was dressed in his official morning coat, with his chain of office about his neck. He had a large, white, spraying mustache and two smaller ones, one over each eye. His white hair was so recently brushed that only now were the hairs struggling to be free, to stand up again. He had been Mayor so long that he was the Idea-Mayor in the town. Even grown people when they saw the word “mayor,” printed or written, saw Mayor Orden in their minds. He and his office were one. It had given him dignity and he had given it warmth.
    From behind him Madame emerged, small and wrinkled and fierce. She considered that she had created this man out of whole cloth, had thought him up, and she was sure that she could