en, I'm awfully tired," Moira complained piteously, late that night.
"Let's just go over it once more. There has to be some way. He still isn't talking to you?"
"I haven't felt anything from him for the last twenty minutes. I think he's asleep."
"All right, let's suppose he isn't going to listen to reason—"
"I think we'd better."
Len made an incoherent noise. "Well, okay. I still don't see why we can't write the last chapter ourselves. It'd only be a few pages."
"Go ahead and try."
"Not me. You've done a little writing. Damned good, too. And if you're so sure all the clues are there—Look, if you say you can't do it, all right, we'll hire somebody. A professional writer. It happens all the time. Thorne Smith's last novel—"
"It wasn't Thorne Smith's and it wasn't a novel," she said dogmatically.