He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car. “How could she of been like that?” “She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h—” He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand. “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?” This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light. Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind. “I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’ ”