The ambient brilliance from the stores projected Kate solidly into his mind, jewel-sharp, and he saw — with the wonder of a brand new discovery — the tiny blue vein behind each of her knees. Breton was overwhelmed by a pang of sheer affection. You can’t let Kate walk through the city at night looking like that, a voice told him urgently, but the alternative was to crawl after her, to knuckle under. He hesitated, then turned in the opposite direction, numbed with self-disgust, swearing bitterly.

It was almost two hours later when the police cruiser pulled up outside the house.

Breton, who had been standing at the window, ran heavy-footed to the door and dragged it open. There were two detectives, with darkly hostile eyes, and a backdrop of blue uniformed figures.

One of the detectives flashed a badge. “Mr. John Breton?”

Breton nodded, unable to speak. I’m sorry Kate, he thought, so sorry — come back and we’ll go to the party. But at the same time an incredible thing was happening. He could feel a sense of relief growing in one deeply hidden corner of his mind. If she’s dead, she’s dead. If she’s dead, it’s all over. If she’s dead, I’m free…

“I’m Lieutenant Convery. Homicide. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“No,” Breton said dully. “You’d better come in.” He led the way into the living room, and had to make an effort to prevent himself straightening cushions like a nervous housewife.

“You don’t seem surprised to see us, Mr. Breton,” Convery said slowly. He had a broad, sunburned face and a tiny nose which made scarcely any division between widely spaced blue eyes.

“What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“Do you own a rifle, Mr. Breton?”

“Ah… yes.” Breton was thunderstruck.

“Do you mind getting it?”

“Look,” Breton said loudly. “What’s going on?”