r face bruised and her nose swollen.  But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.  “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?”  “Twelve years.”  “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?”  The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.  “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”  “Don’t belong to any.”  “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”  “That was a long time ago.”  The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.  “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.  “Which drawer?”  “That drawer—that one.”  Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.  “This?” he inquired, holding it up.  Wilson stared and nodded.  “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.”  “You mean your wife bought it?”  “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”  Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air.  “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.  “Who did?”  “I have a way of finding out.”  “