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I didn’t know his name was David Martin Young, Lieutenant, U.S.N.R.; and he pulled on the jacket he had taken off—”
    “Blouse,” Young said mechanically.
    “—and strutted up and down in front of me. I didn’t know I was a widow, he said; and told me about you. He had arranged things so nobody would miss him, he said; if anybody started looking, it would be for a stray Navy Lieutenant. Lawrence Wilson had died in a terrible accident and would be buried in the family plot in the Bayport Cemetery. If I really wanted to show that my heart was in the right place, I would go over and identify the body right, when they called me; in fact, that was what he had come here for, to make real sure I made the proper identification. If I didn’t, if I tried anything, if he was caught, he would make damn sure that people would think I was just as deeply involved as he was. He said, what could I lose? I could even change my mind about going — and he wasn’t quite sure he could arrange it even if he wanted to — and still, just by saying a few words I would be the rich widow of the late Lawrence Wilson, at least until wealth was no longer allowed to exist for private purposes.” Shelooked down at her clasped hands and was silent.
    “Carry on,” Young said gently.
    She glanced at him. “That’s Navy talk, isn’t it, honey? Larry used to affect a lot of slang he picked up at—” She shivered abruptly. “I said no,” she whispered.
    “That wasn’t very smart,” Young said.
    “No,” she breathed. “It was real silly, I guess. I should have — played along. But I was so — so sick and ashamed... He got mad, of course, perfectly furious. He hit me. I fell against the table and the gun dropped to the floor. I — I crawled over and got it. I p-pointed it at him and told him to get out. I said I would give him until morning to get away from here, because he was my husband, and then I was going to call the police.” She licked her lips. “It wasn’t a very — dignified scene. I told him if he wanted help to go to his redheaded girlfriend; and he told me how funny I looked giving him orders, sitting there in the middle of the rug with my nightie up around my neck. He laughed at me and walked up to me and reached for the gun and — and I shot him. Maybe I thought he was going to kill me. Maybe I really hated him then. Anyway, I shot him.”
    Her voice stopped, and there was no sound in the room. Outside, a large insect of some kind blundered against the screen, and an outboard motor buzzed industriously on the river. Elizabeth Wilsonrose abruptly, her hands still gripping each other desperately.
    “I called Bob Henshaw,” she said. “He — we got it down to the boat. There was an old chain lying on the dock —” Her throat worked. “... burned the rug and my nightie — it was all over rust and blood — while Bob took it out... Then the telephone rang. It was the Rogerstown General Hospital. They told me” — she licked her lips —” they told me that my husband — that my husband had been in an accident, but was going to be all right.” She sank down on the bed again. “They said not to worry — not to worry.”
    Then she turned to him, and he held her as she cried. He was tired, and his face hurt, and she had forgotten in her misery that he was a badly bruised man who should be treated gently. But he did not mind. He did not mind the pain, or the awkwardness, bandaged as he was, of holding in his arms a weeping girl, practically a stranger, who was not fully dressed, or even the uneasiness of wondering — as you could never help doing when they spun you one of these long, sad yarns — just how much of the story it was safe to believe. He did not mind because, for the first time in more than seven years, he was concerned with the troubles of someone other than himself. But then he was getting drowsy again, and not even the excitement of Elizabeth in his arms could keep him awake.

Chapter Five
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