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 speculative 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.

“I’m Lieutenant Convery. Homicide. Do you mind if I come in?”

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

“I don’t quite know how to break this to you, 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 is it, Lieutenant?”

“It’s about your wife. It appears she was walking in the park tonight, without company — and she was attacked.”

“Attacked?” Breton felt his knees begin to swim. “But where is she now? Is she all right?”

Convery shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Breton. She’s dead.”

Breton sank down into a chair while the universe heaved and contracted around him like the chambers of a vast heart suddenly exposed. I did it, he thought, I killed my wife. He was dimly aware of the second detective taking Convery to one side and whispering to him. A few seconds later Convery returned.

“My partner reminds me I’ve jumped the gun a bit, Mr. Breton. Officially, I should have said that the body of a woman had been found with identification on it which suggested she was your wife, but in a clear-cut case I don’t like prolonging things. Just for the record, have you any reason to believe that the body of a woman of about twenty-five, tall, black-and-gold hair, wearing a silver-blue cocktail dress, we found near the 50th Avenue entrance of the city park, would not have been that of Mrs. Breton?”