It was like a fencing match with shadows. He said in exasperation, "I'll never understand you."

Unexpectedly Juanita smiled. "It is not necessary that you should."

They walked the remaining short distance to the bank in silence, Wainwright nursing his frustration. He wished she had thanked him for his offer; if she had, it would have meant, at least, she took it seriously. He tried to guess at her reasoning and values. She obviously rated indepen­dence high. After that he imagined she accepted life as it came, fortune or misfortune, hopes raised or yearnings shat­tered. In a way he envied her and, for that reason and the sexual attraction he had been aware of earlier, he wished he knew her better.

"Mrs. Nunez," Nolan Wainwright said, "I'd like to ask you something."

"Yes."

"If you have a problem, a real problem, something I might help with, will you call me?"

It was the second such offer she had had in the past few days. "Maybe."

That - until much later - was the last conversation be­tween Wainwright and Juanita. He felt he had done all he could, and had other things on his mind. One was a subject he had raised with Alex Vandervoort two months ago -­ planting an undercover informer in an attempt to track down the source of counterfeit credit cards, still gouging deep financial wounds in the Keycharge card system.

Wainwright had located an ex-convict, known to him only as "Vic," who was prepared to take the considerable risk in return for money. They had had one secret meeting, with elaborate precautions. Another was expected.

Wainwright's fervent hope was to bring the credit-card swindlers to justice, as he had Miles Eastin.

The following week, when Eastin appeared once more be­fore Judge Underwood - this time for sentencing - Nolan Wainwright was the sole representative of First Mercantile American Bank in court.

With the prisoner standing, facing the bench on the court clerk's orders, the judge took his time about selecting sev­eral papers and spreading them before him, then regarded Eastin coldly.

"Do you have anything to say?"

"No, your honor." The voice was barely audible.

"I have received a report from the probation officer"­ Judge Underwood paused, scanning one of the papers he had selected earlier - "whom you appear to have convinced that you are genuinely penitent for the criminal offenses to which you have pleaded guilty." The judge articulated the words "genuinely penitent" as if holding them distastefully between thumb and forefinger, making clear that he was not so naive as to share the opinion.

He continued, "Penitence, however, whether genuine or otherwise, is not only belated but cannot mitigate your vi­cious, despicable attempt to thrust blame for your own mal­feasance onto an innocent and unsuspecting person - a young woman - one, moreover, for whom you were re­sponsible as a bank officer and who trusted you as her superior.

"On the basis of the evidence it is clear you would have persisted in that course, even to having your innocent vic­tim accused, found guilty, and sentenced in your place. For­tunately, because of the vigilance of others, that did not occur. But it was not through any second thoughts or `pen­itence' of yours."

From his seat in the body of the court, Nolan Wainwright had a partial view of Eastin's face which had suffused deep red.

Judge Underwood referred again to his papers, then looked up. His eyes, once more, impaled the prisoner.

"So far I have dealt with what I regard as the most con­temptible part of your conduct. There is, additionally, the basic offense - your betrayal of trust as a bank officer, not merely once but on five occasions, widely separated. One such instance of dishonesty might be argued to be the result of reckless impulse. No such argument can be advanced for five carefully planned thefts, executed with perverted clev­erness.

"A bank, as a commercial undertaking, is entitled to ex­pect probity in those whom it selects - as you were se­lected - for exceptional trust. But a bank is more than a commercial institution. It is a place of public trust, and therefore the public is entitled to protection from those who abuse that trust - individuals such as you."

The judge's gaze shifted to include the young defense counsel, waiting dutifully beside his client. Now the tone of voice from the bench became more brisk and formalized.

"Had this been a more ordinary case, and in view of the absence of a previous criminal record, I would have im­posed probation as defense counsel eloquently urged last week. But this is no ordinary case. It is an exceptional one for the reasons I have stated. Therefore, Eastin, you will go to prison where you will have time to reflect on your own activities which brought you there.

"The sentence of the Court is that you be committed to the custody of the Attorney General for a period of two years."

At a nod from the court clerk, a jailer moved forward.

A brief conference took place, a few minutes after sentenc­ing, in a small locked and guarded cubicle behind the court­room, one of several reserved for prisoners and their legal counsel.

"The first thing to remember," the young lawyer told Miles Eastin, "is that a two-year prison term doesn't mean two years. You'll be eligible for parole after a third of the sentence is served. That's in less than a year."

Miles Eastin, wrapped in misery and a sense of unreality, nodded dully.

"You can, of course, appeal the sentence, and you don't have to make a decision about that now. But I'll tell you frankly, I don't advise it. For one thing I don't believe you'd be released pending an appeal. For another, since you pleaded guilty, the grounds for appeal are limited. Also, by the time any appeal was heard, you might have served your sentence."

"The ballgame's over. No appeal."

"I'll be in touch with you anyway, in case you change your mind. And while I think of it, I'm sorry how things came out."

Eastin acknowledged wryly, "So am I."

"It was your confession, of course, that did us in. With­out that I don't believe the prosecution would have proved its case - at least the six-thousand-dollar cash theft, which weighed heaviest with the judge. I know, of course, why you signed that second statement - the FBI one; you thought the first was valid so another wouldn't make any difference. Well, it did. I'm afraid that security man, Wain­wright, tricked you all the way."

The prisoner nodded. "Yes, I know that now."

The lawyer looked at his watch. "Well, I have to go. I've a heavy date tonight. You know how it is." A jailer let him out.

Next day Miles Eastin was transferred to a federal prison, out of state.

At First Mercantile American Bank, when news of Miles Eastin's sentencing was received among those who knew him, some felt regret, others held the view that the retri­bution was what he had deserved. One opinion was unan­imous: No more would be heard of Eastin at the bank again.

Only time would prove how much in error that last as­sumption was.