"Mr. James Rainford?" he asked rhetorically.
"Yes?"
"I'm from the Bureau of the Census," he said calmly.
This couldn't be the same fellow Fitzgerald had encountered. There must be a group of them covering the neighborhood. In any event, this man was cold sober. Further, the fastest Olympic runner couldn't have made the two long blocks from Fitzgerald's house in the time that had elapsed and this fellow wasn't even breathing hard.
"Let's see your credentials," I said.
I wasn't sure whether he hesitated because he couldn't remember which pocket they were in or for some other reason; anyway, he did produce credentials and they were headed U. S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, and looked very proper indeed.
But I still couldn't quite believe it. "But the census was taken last year," I said.
"We have to recheck this area," he said smoothly. "We have reason to believe that the records are inaccurate."
His eyes were harder to meet than ever.
"Excuse me," I said and stepped out on the stoop, looking down the hill toward Fitzgerald's house.