His thoughts had swung between two poles innumerable times that morning. At one moment he was certain that the Emperor had killed Donna Franklin, and at others he believed that it might really be Sid. In his way Sid had loved Donna, and to Dennis's best knowledge he had never committed a violent act in his life. Still, the unpleasant and newly discovered truth remained that anyone was capable of murder. What Robin had planned to do to Ann was proof of that. But not Sid, he thought anew. Not Sid killing Donna. That was unimaginable. What remained then, behind locked doors and windows? Only a creature to whom doors and windows meant nothing, because he was incorporeal. The Emperor. But he could not have killed Donna, could he, for the very reason that he was incorporeal. Then that left only Sid, but Sid could not have killed Donna because . . . And on and on it went. He welcomed this inner debate, as inconclusive as it was, for it kept his mind busy, kept the terrible depression at bay. It seemed that the people on whom he depended, the people he loved, were being taken away from him.
