Volluswen

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THE jury was returning. Galt Cavendish, his jolting nerves held rigidly taut, could read nothing in the twelve faces. Acquittal was improbable. But conviction was equally so. Insanity, his lawyer had said, was the only possible out.

He had told his story, withholding nothing, from the first moment he had begun to suspect his brother. That had been a month ago. Before that, of course, Tim Cavendish had not existed....

“We, the jury–”

Galt Cavendish leaned forward.

GALT CAVENDISH leaned forward. His middle-aged, rather flabby face sagged disconsolately. Tim splashed soda in the glass and proffered it, a fat, harmless little man with untidy, mouse-colored hair. Seated there in the New York apartment, the brothers, looked like smalltown storekeepers, to whom weighing cheeses, fishing, and the weather were the facts of life.

“Here's luck,” Tim said. He winked. It was a sly, triumphant, sniggering sort of wink, absurd in a man of his age and position. Galt nodded and drank. He put down his glass and watched Tim.

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