Dorothy came to me. She was still human, more so if anything. The perky lift of her was completely gone, the color scheme of her visible skin was washed-out gray, and her eyes were pinched with trouble.
“Mr. Donaldson gone?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“It’s a bad day all around. Now Miss Rooney and Wayne Safford have been pinched. The police seem to think they left out something about that Tuesday morning. I was just telling Mr. Wolfe when you came—”
“I want to see him,” she said.
“Who? Mr. Wolfe?”
“Yes. Immediately.”
“What about?”
I’ll be damned if her brows didn’t go up. The humanity I thought I had seen was only on the surface.
“I’ll tell him that,” she stated, me being mud. “I must see him at once.”