He, too, rose, sitting down again sidewise on the rustic rail of the summerhouse.
"Wait a minute, mother. I want to ask you something. When I was at Marillo I wandered into your room one day and saw a picture."
"A picture?"
"Yes; a picture; and I—I wondered how it—it happened to come there."
She bent a little toward him, drawing her cloak more closely about her. If it was acting it was well done.
"It—it couldn't have been—"
He chucked the butt of his cigarette into the lake.
"Yes, I guess it was. It had an inscription on it—'Life and Death, by Hubert Wray.'"
"Oh, my God! Where did you say you saw it, Bob?"
"In your bedroom, against the wall. I thought it might be a portrait you'd had done, and so lifted—"