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They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. ‘So now we come to it. ” “Where?” He asked. Hill,” she said graciously. I said I’d make shirts.
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