They didn’t talk much on the way. It really was quite oppressive and totally dark in some stretches. Here and there, a lonely stoplight glowed. Any houses still standing had boarded-up doors and windows and looked quite forlorn. Instinctively they pressed against each other and at some point in the gloom between two pale islands of light the good Samaritan gave in to his desire for more intimate human contact and tried to kiss the girl. As I’ve said, he was a sympathetic man in his mid-thirties, as well dressed as it was possible to be in those days, and he’d shown himself to be friendly and helpful. Under other circumstances the girl would have been quite willing to let it happen. But for some unfathomable reason, she instantly panicked, the suppressed tension of the preceding hours broke through and tore a scream from her throat, a scream so wild and terrible that her escort took fright himself and ran head over heels in one direction while the girl fled in the other, screaming all the while. She ran and screamed to the point of utter exhaustion when she spied the lighted sign of a police station in the distance. The officers on duty were already pouring out in response to her screaming. One took her firmly by the arm. “Where is he? Which way did he run?” She struggled for breath. “It was nothing—I’m so frightened—He just wanted to—” “Which way did he go?” the policeman yelled at her. “Somewhere in the other direction.”—She heard the sudden roar of the motorcycles, a swarm of police raced off in the direction she was pointing. “But he just wanted to . . .” “Come with me!” said the officer still holding her by the arm. He led her into the station and in front of a mirror. Around her neck was a wire loop with a toggle . . .