Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. “No, the only person I told before tonight was my mother and father. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. Naturally he was a member of the National Honor Society and a straight A student on the Honor Roll.
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