How complete the development was in his case, and whether it was for better or worse would be revealed on the morrow, he grimly told himself—if he got his chance.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting, in his pajamas, on the side of his bed studying for the hundredth time the precious slip of paper that bore the Tate signals. The numbers were running through his brain as he slipped under the covers. It was an hour and a half before he could coax himself to sleep.
