The maid said Mrs. Willsson was wanted at the phone. She excused herself and followed the maid out. She didn’t go downstairs, but spoke over an extension within earshot.

I heard: “ Mrs. Willsson speaking.⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… I beg your pardon?⁠ ⁠… Who?⁠ ⁠… Can’t you speak a little louder?⁠ ⁠… What? ⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… Who is this?⁠ ⁠… Hello! Hello!”

The telephone hook rattled. Her steps sounded down the hallway⁠—rapid steps.

I set fire to a cigarette and stared at it until I heard her going down the steps. Then I went to a window, lifted an edge of the blind, and looked out at Laurel Avenue, and at the square white garage that stood in the rear of the house on that side.