Wolfe didn’t say anything. I stood behind her and waited, ready to catch her if she started to faint and fall forward, because I didn’t know how much it might open up. Wolfe hadn’t moved. He sat looking at her with his eyes nearly shut and his lips pushing out, and in, and out and in again.
She said, “He got into a fit. One of his cold fits.”
Wolfe said politely, “I didn’t know Mr. Chapin had fits. Feel her pulse.”
I reached out and got her wrist and placed my fingers. While I was counting she began to talk:
“He doesn’t have fits exactly. It’s a look that comes into his eyes. I am always afraid of him, but when I see that look I am terrified. He has never done anything to me before. This morning when I saw him look like that I said something I shouldn’t have said... look here.”
She jerked her hand away from me to use it for getting into her handbag, a big leather one. Out of it she pulled something wrapped in newspaper. She unrolled the newspaper and held up a kitchen knife that had blood on it still wet and red.
“He had this and I didn’t know it. He must have been getting ready for me when he was out in the kitchen.”
I took the knife from her and laid it on the desk, on top of the newspaper, and said to Wolfe:
“Her pulse is on a little sprint, but it’s okay.”
Wolfe put his hands on the arms of the chair, braced himself, and got to his feet. He said, “Please do not move, Mrs. Chapin,” and walked around behind her and took a look at her neck. He bent down with his eyes close to her; I hadn’t seen him so active for a month or more. Peering at the gashes, he said, “Please tilt your head forward, just a little, and back again.” She did so, and the blood came out again; in one spot it nearly spurted at him.