“How—changed?” I asked.
“Looked ten years older.”
“Were you down here when her husband died?” I asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible.
“No. From all I heard it would be a good riddance. Uncharitable, perhaps, but the truth.”
I agreed.
“Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband,” I said cautiously.
“Blackguard, I thought,” said Blunt.
“No,” I said, “only a man with more money than was good for him.”
“Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money—or the lack of it.”
“Which has been your particular trouble?” I asked.