“The trouble was,” she said, wiping her eyes again, “I didn’t want it to end right then and never see him again. I didn’t want to say no. He could tell I didn’t, and he put his hand on mine and said I didn’t have to give him an answer right then, that he’d call me at my sister’s for my answer. Then he told me what it’d be like. He had this house about half an hour’s drive from Stamford and if I were willing, we could take an early train back Sunday evening and go there and have supper and I could call my father and make some excuse why I wouldn’t be home. We’d have dinner by candlelight and nobody would know anything because the house was out by itself away from other houses, and he’d put me on the nine o’clock train to Stamford the next morning and no one would be any the wiser. The way he said it made it sound like heaven and he was right. Nobody would ever know anything about it. There was only one thing, he said. I couldn’t just agree to come. I had to want to come.
“I did want to. That was the whole trouble. I thought about it half the night at my sister’s and I kept telling myself it was wrong and all, but I knew he was right. It was now or never. If I said no, I’d never see him again and if I said yes, then there might be other times and if I tried hard, he might fall in love with me. My sister got married. She’s been married four years and I thought maybe I might get married.”
She sighed. “He called on Saturday, right around dinnertime. I still had doubts and I was still worried. I guess it was scruples and I’d been trying so hard to fight them down. Then, when I heard his voice, so cheerful and friendly and interested, calling me ‘sweet’ and ‘dear,’ that was all I needed to decide me for keeps. I said yes, I’d go with him and we discussed it and made plans that we’d take the five forty-five train from Grand Central Sunday evening. I’d make excuses to my sister about having to get home and I wouldn’t let her and her husband see me to the train and I’d meet him at the information booth in the station at five-thirty. And that’s what we did.”
She looked up at Fellows, red-eyed and pleading. “I know it was wrong, Mr. Fellows. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t know I’d get caught.” She said, “Will I go to jail?”
Fellows shook his head. “Miss Sherman, if you’re telling the truth, and if you co-operate with us, I doubt that anything will happen to you at all.” He sat down on the couch again and got out his notebook, scribbling in it at length while Miss Sherman composed herself. Then he said, thumbing back a few pages and studying, “That address you wrote on the telephone pad. He ask you to do that?”
“Yes. I did it before we left Monday morning.”
“He put you on the nine o’clock train?”
“Yes. He said he had to go to work.”
“What kind of work did he do?”
She chewed her lip. “I’m not sure exactly. I think he said it was hardware. I don’t know what position he held.”
“Can you describe the car he drove?”
That drew a blank. Miss Sherman had no idea. “It was dark when we got in to Stamford and I guess I was nervous and excited. I didn’t notice. I don’t know cars anyway.”
“It wasn’t dark when he drove you to the train Monday morning.”
“I know that, but I still don’t know. I don’t remember anything about the car. I don’t even remember anything about the train ride.”
“Was it a tan car?”
“It could have been tan or blue or purple. I can’t tell you.”
“What did Mr. Campbell look like?”
She looked at the chief, puzzled. “Don’t you know him?”
“We know of him. Will you describe him, please?”
“Tall. I guess probably around six feet. I’m not good at judging height. Slender build. He wasn’t fat at all.” She turned pink at that remark and said quickly, “Dark hair and brown eyes, fair skin. A very good-looking man.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Conservatively. When I saw him on the train he had a dark overcoat and a brown hat. Brown shoes.”
Fellows referred to his notes. “Did he wear a scarf?”
“A gray wool scarf. Charcoal gray.”
“Good quality clothes?”
“I don’t know much about men’s clothes. They looked average.”
“Has he got in touch with you since Monday?”
She shook her head a little sadly. “I haven’t heard from him since. He said he’d call as soon as he had the chance, but he hasn’t yet.”
“Can you describe his face?”
She chewed her lip again. She wanted to be helpful, but she didn’t have the ability. “I thought it was a nice face, and I can close my eyes and see it just as plain, but it’s hard to describe.
It’s a—a—” She gestured helplessly. “It’s a face. Eyes, nose that looked like anybody’s nose, it wasn’t too big or too small, maybe his mouth was a little wider than average.”
“You can’t do any better than that?”
She shook her head.
“Moles? Scars? Other marks?”
“Not on his face. He had a small mole”—and here she blushed again—“on the small of his back, and another on his right shoulder blade. I don’t
