I stepped forward and slid my left arm around the back of her shoulder, fumbled with the silken loop which circled some ornamental buttons on the collar of her blouse.

“No, no,” she said. “Don’t. Please—” She raised her hand to push me away, but I slipped the loop over the button and opened her blouse. Her head came back. Her lips were close to mine. Her arm slid over my shoulders, and I pulled her to me. Her lips were warm and clinging. This time there was no taste of salt tears. After a while, she drew away and said, “Oh, Donald, what must you think of me?”

“I think you’re swell,” I said.

“Donald, I don’t usually do this. I have been feeling so lonesome and all alone—and from the first time I met you—”

I kissed her again. After that, I gently slid the blouse away from her neck and looked at the bruised marks. She stood perfectly still. I could feel her even, regular breathing, but a pulse in her neck was throbbing rapidly.

“How big was this man who tried to choke you?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I tell you it was dark.”

“Was he big and fat, or small and thin?”

“He wasn’t fat.”

“His hands must have been small.”

“Well—I don’t know—”

“Look here,” I said, “there are little scratches on the skin which could have been made by fingernails. Now, are you certain it wasn’t a woman?”

She caught her breath at that. “Scratches?” she asked.

“Yes, scratches, nail scratches. The person who choked you must have had long, pointed fingernails. Now why couldn’t it have been a woman as well as a man?”

“Because I don’t think—no, I think it was a man.”

“But you couldn’t see anything at all?”

“No.”

“It was pitch dark?”

“Yes.”

“And whoever it was made no sound?”

“No.”

“Simply started to choke you and you fought free?”

“Yes, I pushed him away.”

“And you have absolutely no idea who it was?” I asked.

“No.”

“There’s nothing whatever to give you a clue?”

“No.”

I patted her shoulder. “All right, dear. I just wanted to find out. That’s all.”

“I—I think I’ll sit down,” she said. “I get nervous every time I talk about it.”

She went over to the overstuffed chair and sat down.

“I think you’d better tell me about your boy friend,” I said.

“He’s in Kansas City.”

“But you don’t think he’s going to stay there?”

“If he finds out where I am, he may come here.”

“Don’t you think he’s found out already?”

“No. He couldn’t have found out.”

“And yet in the back of your mind there’s the thought that he may have—”

“Don’t, Donald, please,” she interrupted. “I don’t think I can take any more.”