“Well, I don’t want you to get ahead of your story. Before you go on, I’d like to clear up one thing. What was the date on which your husband took this position?”
“It was the first of April, 1926. I didn’t get mine till about two weeks later.”
“Did you consider that he had left you for good at that time—deserted you, I mean?”
“I certainly didn’t understand any such a thing.” A spark shone in Mrs. Platz’s mild eye. “He came to see me every Sunday of his life just like clockwork, and about once a week besides.”
“He had talked of leaving you?”
“He certainly didn’t, except once in a while when both of us was mad and didn’t mean anything we said—like he’d say if I didn’t quit nagging he’d walk out and leave me cold, and I’d say nothing would give me any more pleasure—you know, like married people do sometimes.”
Mr. Lambert permitted himself a wintry smile.
“Quite. Divorce was not contemplated by either of you?”
“No, sir, we couldn’t contemplate anything like that. Divorces cost something dreadful; and besides, we hadn’t been married no more than a year about.” Mrs. Platz blinked valiantly through the straw-coloured lashes, her mouth screwed to a small, watery smile.
“So, at the time you were speaking of, your relations with your husband were amiable enough, were they?”