With the equipment she had—even with that wedding ring showing—all she had to do was stumble. But what other explanation was there? She’d deliberately thrown the gun in the lake. I gave up.

I was reaching for a cigarette when I suddenly heard footsteps outside on the pier. I held still and listened. They couldn’t be hers. She was barefoot. Or even if she’d already changed and put her shoes on, this wasn’t the clicking of a woman’s high heels. It was a man. Or men, I thought. It sounded as if there were two of them. They came aboard and into the living-room, the scraping of their shoes loud and distinct in the hush. I stiffened, hardly breathing now.

Detectives? Wayne himself? Suddenly I remembered the way she’d doubled all over town getting out on the highway and how she’d kept watching the rearview mirror. I cursed her bitterly and silently. This was wonderful. This was all I lacked—getting myself shot, or named correspondent in a divorce suit. And for nothing, except having my face slapped around under my ear.

I looked swiftly around the room. There was no way out. The window was too small. I eased across the carpet until I was against the door, listening.

“Well, it’s the scenic Mrs. Macaulay,” a man’s voice said. “You don’t mind if we look around, do you?”

Mrs. Macaulay? But that was what he’d said.

“What do you want, now?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and it was scared.

“The usual,” the man replied easily. “Tiresome, aren’t we?”

“Can’t you ever understand that I don’t know where he is?” she said passionately. “He’s gone. He left me. I don’t know where he went. I haven’t heard from him—”

“A bit tiresome yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so. We’ve heard the routine. But to get back to the present moment—we found your making two trips out here in twenty-four hours rather intriguing, and thought we’d look into it. Might even take up nature study ourselves.