“Then he was a traveller, Mr. Berlyn?”
“Yes; used to go away to France and such places when he had holidays.”
“Wise man,” French commented. “And how did the match turn out?”
For the first time the sergeant hesitated.
“There, Mr. French, you have me. I couldn’t really tell you. From all accounts they got on as well as most people whose tastes differ. He was quiet and liked sitting at home in the evenings, and she wanted a bit of life. There’s not much of what you might call gaiety in this town, as you may guess, but whatever there was Mrs. Berlyn was in the centre of it. At first he used to go out with her to Torquay and so on, but he gradually gave that up and she had to find some one else to go with or stay at home.”
“And she found some one?”
“Any number. The gentlemen up at the works, mostly. They were all glad to go with her! Colonel Domlio had been taking her about lately—I mean before Mr. Berlyn’s death—and before that it was Mr. Pyke and sometimes Mr. Cowls, the engineer. She was friends, too, with Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster, and I’ve often seen her out with people called Tucker that live close by.”
All this seemed suggestive to French and his facile brain was already building up tentative theories.
“Was there ever any suggestion of anything between Mrs. Berlyn and any of those men?”
“There was a bit of talk at one time, but I don’t believe there was anything in it.”