I felt uncertain too, when I saw her. They don’t come any uglier. She came in and stood looking straight at Wolfe, as if she was deciding how to do him over. At that she wasn’t really ugly, I mean she wasn’t hideous. Wolfe said it right the next day: it was more subtle than plain ugliness, to look at her made you despair of ever seeing a pretty woman again. Her eyes were rather small, gray, and looked as if they’d never move again when they got fixed. She had on a dark gray woolen coat with a hat to match, and an enormous gray furpiece was fastened around her neck. She sat down on the chair I pulled up for her and said in a strong voice:
“I had a hard time getting here. I think I’m going to faint.”
Wolfe said, “I hope not. A little brandy.”
“No.” She gave a little gasp. “No, thank you.” She put her hand up to the furpiece and seemed to be trying to reach under it, behind. “I’ve been wounded. Back there. I think you’d better look at it.”
Wolfe shot me a glance, and I went. She got the thing unfastened in front, and I pulled it around and lifted it off. I gave a gasp then myself. Not that I haven’t seen a little blood here and there, but not often that much, and it was so unexpected. The back of the furpiece, inside, was soaked. The collar of her coat was soaked too. She was a sight. It was still oozing out, plenty, from gashes across the back of her neck; I couldn’t tell how deep they were. She moved and it came out in a little spurt. I dropped the furpiece on the floor and said to her:
“For God’s sake keep still. Don’t move your head.” I looked at Wolfe and said, “Somebody’s tried to cut her head off. I can’t tell how far they got.”
She spoke to Wolfe: “My husband wanted to kill me.”
Wolfe’s eyes on her were half closed. “Then you’re Dora Ritter.”
She shook her head, and the blood started, and I told her to quit. She said, “I am Dora Chapin. I have been married three years.”