Jon Hagadorn

The curious impression it had made upon her was somewhat dimmed in the daylight, yet it still struck her as needing explanation.

She intended to get hold of Bill Eversley sometime and extract from him fuller details of the house party which had ended so tragically.

In the meantime, it was a lovely morning and she felt particularly well as the Hispana was running like a dream.

Bundle pressed her foot down on the accelerator, and the Hispano responded at once.

Mile after mile vanished, traffic stops were few and far between, and Bundle had a clear stretch of road in front of her.

And then, without any warning whatever, a man reeled out of the hedge and onto the road right in front of the car.

To stop in time was out of the question.

With all her might, Bundle wrenched at the steering wheel and swerved out to the right.

The car was nearly in the ditch, nearly, but not quite.

It was a dangerous maneuver, but it succeeded.

Bundle was almost certain that she had missed the man.

She looked back and felt a sickening sensation in the middle of her anatomy.

The car had not passed over the man, but nevertheless it must have struck him in passing.

He was lying face downwards on the road, and he lay ominously still.

Mondal jumped out and ran back.

She had never yet run over anything more important than a stray hen.

The fact that the accident was hardly her fault did not weigh with her at the minute.

The man had seemed drunk, but drunk or not, she had killed him.

She was quite sure she had killed him.

Her heart beat sickeningly in great pounding thumps, sounding right up to her ears.