"Yes, my dear—"
"My brother Basil left us to—to follow the daughter of the village tavern-keeper. That was the last straw, that was what worked on my father's health and finally killed him. He never saw Basil again. You've said to me so often that Basil was past, that we needn't think of him or trouble about him or break our hearts over him. But he is not past. Nothing ever is. You cannot get away from the things you do and that other people do. They keep on forever, from generation to generation."
"Mary Alcestis, tell me plainly what you mean!"
"It was this woman who calls herself Mrs. Bent whom he followed away. Her name was Margie Ginter."
Dr. Lister drew up a chair and sat down by Mrs. Lister.
"How much of this is suspicion? How much do you really know?"
Mrs. Lister started again. The storm increased in intensity without breaking. The rain fell in slow, heavy drops, audible as they struck the roof of the porch. Her voice, on a high and monotonous key, seemed to fill the house.
"She lived here at the tavern. It was a terrible place. People who keep places of that kind pay some attention to public opinion now, but they didn't then. We found that he went there—my father thought it was to drink. Then one evening I came upon them, him and the girl, on Cherry Street in the dark, walking together under the thick trees. I was not often out alone in the evening, but it seemed that this had to happen. I heard her talking to Basil and I told my father. In a little while they left here, and then he went also."
"Do you mean that your father could compel them to leave?"