"But dammit, I don't want to set up my family in someone else's house," objected Tim Fisher.
"Buy this one," suggested James. "Then it will be yours. I'll stay on and pay rent on my section."
"You'll—now wait a minute! What are you talking about?"
"I said, 'I'll pay rent on my section,'" said James.
"But this guy upstairs—" Tim took a long breath. "Let's get this straight," he said, "now that we're on the subject, what about Mr. Charles Maxwell?"
"I can best quote," said James with a smile, "'Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!'"
"That's Shakespeare."
"Sorry. That's Sir Walter Scott. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Canto Six, Stanza Seventeen. The fact of the matter is that we could go on compounding this lie, but it's time to stop it. Mr. Charles Maxwell does not exist."
"I don't understand!"
"Hasn't it puzzled you that this hermit-type character that never puts a foot out of the house has been out and gone on some unstated vacation or business trip for most of the spring and summer?"