“Oh, I hardly know what to say to that question.”
“If it’s a secret, keep it to yourself. I don’t expect you are the sort of man to make up to the widow.”
“Widow?”
“Yes, she had on widow’s weeds when she called.”
“I suppose so.”
“I know it, and that’s better than supposing. She’s a downright good sort, I should say.”
“You are right; she is a good sort.”
“Her name is Mrs. Bourne.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she said so. Why, her husband that was, Doctor Bourne, committed suicide. His furniture and other effects were brought under the hammer, and, strange to say, I attended the sale and bought his violin—that one that you see lying on the top of the piano. We played a duet or two together when she called.”