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again, striding across the carpet to her telephone, one of the few of these luxuries possessed by summer boarders. She looked older and paler and somehow thinner, as though her body had compacted itself against her frame. Before lifting the earpiece, she glanced at me. I could not tell, from within my stupor, what was in that glance, whether pity or compassion or horror. Perhaps all of them; perhaps none. I realized only later that she had gone Up There, into the guest room next door, and seen what I had seen.
    She looked away. For a moment she stood with her hand atop the telephone, resting upon it, leaning her weight upon it. Then, abruptly, she lifted the receiver, waited for the operator, and then asked for a number in Boston.
    I was staring at the floral pattern in the Persian carpet. I heard her give her name, “Miss Lizbeth A. Borden.” From then on, I heard fragments only as I drifted up to and then below the surface of my Chill. “Someone here in town … The best, you say?” Then, explosively: “Of course not, don’t be daft.” I heard her mention Father’s name, and the brokerage firm for which he worked. “Who was the doctor again? … Yes.… Yes, immediately , do you understand? … At my cottage, yes.… Good-bye.”
    She seated the receiver in its cradle, momentarily rested upon it once more, then lifted it again. She asked the operator for a Dr. Bowen.
    I heard: “… Shock, yes.… As soon as possible, if you don’t mind.… Miss Lizbeth A. Borden … One-Oh-Two Water Street.… Borden.… Miss Lizbeth A. Borden …” Snappishly: “Are you there, you silly girl?” Somewhat mollified: “Yes, I shall be most grateful.” She slammed the phone into the cradle and spat out: “ Idiot .”
    She stood there for a moment, breathing raggedly. I stared at the carpet.
    â€œOnly one more,” she said.
    I looked up sluggishly, saw that she was speaking to me. I nodded even as I wondered what she meant.
    She lifted the telephone, waited again, and then asked for the police. A pause. Then: “This is Miss Lizbeth A. Borden. I should like to report a murder.”

    â€¦ Miss Lizzie sitting beside me, unspeaking, her left arm along the sofa’s back, behind my head. I could smell her comforting sachet smell of citrus and spice; but, beneath my Snow, I was having no more of comfort now.

    â€¦ a rap of heavy knuckles at the front door, a sound that in the stillness of the house came as a jolt, sudden and peremptory. Miss Lizzie touched me once, lightly, upon the shoulder; and then, with another rustling sigh of petticoats, moved away.

    â€¦ the door opening, a voice other than Miss Lizzie’s, heavy-timbered, hard, Irish, determinedly masculine. Miss Lizzie’s voice, hushed. Another male voice, softer than the first, placating. The first voice again, harsh, aggressive. Miss Lizzie’s voice, temporarily overriding his, growing gradually louder in protest. The second male voice interrupting hers, polite and deferential, but very firm. Miss Lizzie, tired and resigned.
    Footsteps thumping on the carpet.

    â€¦ a blue uniform, the slacks neatly pressed, the black shoes carefully polished. I saw that the sole of the shoe on the right had a notch in it, as though a small wedge of leather had been nicked away by a knife. The man squatted onto his heels before me, his cap held in both hands, his elbows braced against his knees. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said softly.
    In his early thirties, he had a tanned face and closely cropped blond hair parted on the left. His eyebrows were also blond, and so was his mustache, which ended exactly at the well-defined creases—smile lines, Father always called them—that curled down from a slightly aquiline nose and bracketed a finely shaped mouth. What saved the face from being entirely too handsome was a tiny raised round mole, chocolate brown,