Sometimes now, quite safe at home in Georgetown, I wake up at night and hear the death rattle of the wind in the last sear leaves of the tulip poplar outside my window . . . and the whole of my next two days in Reno flashes dreadfully through my mind, as the memory of the rack must forever have tortured the dreams of a man escaped from the Inquisition. And I can still see Judy Bonner, so plainly, standing there in her gray linen frock, white and shaken, the yellow sun burning on her red-gold hair, staring dry-eyed out of the window.
I had less than no idea of what to say to her, and I was more than grateful when the telephone rang suddenly in the complete silence of the hot room. It was Mr. Martin. For some reason that I did not comprehend, and that I don’t think Mr. Martin did either, bu
