The lady—the very rich, very beautiful lady—dazed with sleep, lifted herself on one elbow and pumped two shots at the man in her bedroom door. Later they found her, incoherent with shock, sprawled in the hallway over the pajama-clad body of her dead husband.
When they were able to question her, she said she thought she had fired at a prowler who had been terrorizing the neighborhood for the past few weeks. Thus began the Wilson affair, the ten-day sensation that had the press and the nation speculating excitedly over the burning question: Did Irene Wilson shoot her husband to death by accident—or with deliberate intent?
It took ten years—and a man in love—to provide the fantastic answer.
