“Did she ask you where you were going?”
“No. She was very nice.”
“Then what?”
“Then I went up to the third floor again and knocked. Nothing happened. I opened the door and peeked in. She was still lying on the bed in the same position, and — well, something in the way she was lying — I walked in, went over and touched her. She was dead. There was a cord drawn tightly around her neck. Her face looked — awful. It was turned away from the door. Oh, Donald, it’s terrible!”
“What did you do?”
“I was in a panic,” she said, “because you see I’d gone in once before, a half an hour earlier. The manager knew it. I was afraid that they might think — you know, that I’d done it.”
“You little fool,” I said. “How long ago was this?”
“Not very long. I’d found out where you lived. I’d telephoned your agency and said I was an old friend, that you’d told me I could locate you there. The girl who answered the telephone told me where I could find you.”
“And you came here?”
“Yes, just as fast as I could drive.”