I stepped to her side and set her down in the chair I had been sitting in, making foolish clucking sounds—meant to soothe her—with my tongue. A disagreeable ten minutes—and gradually she pulled herself together; her eyes lost their glassiness, and she stopped clawing at her mouth.
“I did follow him.” It was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.
Then she was out of the chair, kneeling, with arms held up to me, and her voice was a thin scream.
“But I didn’t kill him! I didn’t! Please believe that I didn’t!”
I picked her up and put her back in the chair.
“I didn’t say you did. Just tell me what did happen.”
“I didn’t believe him when he said he had a business engagement,” she moaned. “I didn’t trust him. He had lied to me before. I followed him to see if he went to that woman’s rooms.”
“Did he?”
“No. He went into an apartment house on Pine Street, in the block where he was killed. I don’t know exactly which house it was—I was too far behind him to make sure. But I saw him go up the steps and into one—near the middle of the block.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I waited, hiding in a dark doorway across the street. I knew the woman’s apartment was on Bush Street, but I thought she might have moved, or be meeting him here. I waited a long time, shivering and trembling. It was chilly and I was frightened—afraid somebody would come into the vestibule where I was. But I made myself stay. I wanted to see if he came