"Who is it speaking?" There was no answer, and none again when I repeated the question. Who could it be? And the meaning of it? It certainly wasn't Anna's voice, although the 'phone has a trick at times of changing the voice considerably.
It was still nearly an hour before the time she had fixed for me to go to her, and I couldn't understand how she could have got hold of my telephone number. But she wouldn't have telephoned if it hadn't been urgent. It looked as if she had made up her mind at last to admit everything, and the sooner I had the confession the better chance there was of catching von Gratzen at his office. So I hurried off, was lucky enough to get a taxi, and reached her place within ten minutes of getting her message.
To my surprise the door of her flat was ajar. Not perhaps an unusual thing, considering that she was a somewhat casual person. I pressed the electric bell and heard it ring all right; but she didn't come to the door. Probably slipped out for something, I concluded; and after a second ring, I pushed the door wide and went in.
She was not in the sitting-room, and I was just dropping into a chair to wait for her, when a glance through the open door of the adjoining bedroom brought my heart up into my mouth, as if I'd come on an air pocket a thousand feet deep.
She was lying asprawl on the bed in a most unnatural attitude.
In a second I was in the room and knew the truth.
She was dead, and the marks on her throat could only mean one thing.
"Murder!"