"Why do you hate your husband?"
"Because he killed someone." '
Rich remained motionless, bent over, his hand partly supporting him on the tan quilted coverlet of the bed. His fingers closed into a fist.
"Whom did he kill?"
"A girl, Polly Allen. Here."
At mention of the name, Rich's bunched fingers tightened still more, and then relaxed. "Here? In this room?" "No. Downstairs.'
"Where downstairs? In the back drawing room, was it?" "Yes!"
"How did he kill her?"
"He strangled her."
"Was it on the sofa he strangled her?"