Mr. Hoode met them as they walked through the foyer. "Ah, Socrates' friends!" he said to Nat, who was dabbing at the front of his coat with a piece of tissue. "Was everything in order?"
"There was a slight change of plan," Nat said. "He decided at the last moment to make it Julius Caesar." He held the knife up in explanation.
"Julius Caesar! But—"
But they were gone, filing out through the front door, the women sobbing in their handkerchiefs. No one looked back.
The door hissed quietly shut. Mr. Hoode started at the sound and then walked slowly into his office, seized by a cold, limp rage. From his window, he could see them going down the driveway.
"Amateurs," he spat after them with deep disgust. "Damned, lousy, unimaginative amateurs!"