leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of comphi, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we [%y3%] started with Gatsby toward the house that
the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grhi, and the holocaust was complete. After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that
night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a 
policeman byit kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them chiered open-mouthed
about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression â€Å"madman†as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious
authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare  grotesque,
circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up
in racy pasquinade  but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a [%y3%] word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too  looked at the coroner
with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister
had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. S. Wilson was
reduced to a man â€Å"deranged by [%y3%] grief†in order that the case might remain in its simplist form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I
found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question,
was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was
responsible, because no one else was interested  interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that
afternoon, and taken baggage with them. â€Å"Left no address Say whenthey’d be back? Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?
I don't know. Can’t say. I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and rehiure him: â€Å"I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry.
Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address .
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