Impulse

And I know many things, and I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadow.

Yeah. I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Now the Whistler's strange story, impulse, out in the waiting room of the New York airport, hardly noticed the small slender man in the trench coat, standing here the magazine counter.

The few who gave him a passing grant certainly had no way of guessing what was going through his mind at the moment. For his face betrayed no sign of the struggle it raged within. Christopher Daniels, professor of English, was striving to reach a decision, a very important decision.

At this moment, he had reached a crossroad. He had a choice to make. He could go on living his own dull life, or a new life. The light of another man. Mr. Neil Baldwann. A man whose name was now being called over the public address system.

Mr. Neil Baldwann. Please report to the reservation staff immediately. Mr. Baldwann please. Suddenly Christopher Daniel's shivered. This unbelievable unexpected chance had come so suddenly it almost seemed like a dream. Yes. A dream which had reached its climax that afternoon in his room at the hotel.

Perhaps it had really started this morning at his home in New Haven. That unpleasant scene with his white blanch. He'd forgotten what had brought it all on. Money, his job, didn't matter really. The scenes with Blanch always ended the same way.

Blanch, please. You've been over all this time and time again now. Yes, yes, we have, Chris. And what good is it, Don? You never think of me, really. What I gave up to marry you.