"Pst ... pst!"
She looked up.
"Did you see the child?" he called. "It must have turned into the garden."
Mrs. Tilton straightened herself, holding her back with both hands. "The child?"
"The voice, I just heard it again."
"I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Coat."
He looked round the kitchen—the antique flagstones, the brass pots, the stove, the hand pump. There was only one anachronism: on the wall by the door, stuck behind a cluster of radishes, was a World Union Telegram.
Out in the vegetable patch, he saw Mrs. Tilton was looking about for something.
On an impulse he took down the telegram, and read:
RECOAT IF VOICES PERSIST TO THIRD MORNING PROCEED EUTHANASIA SUGGEST USING COFFEE FORMULA TWO ADVISE OFFICE OF CHIEF PSYCH WMA