Williams gave a bearish shrug:
“Oh, pshaw, what’s the matter with him’s easy to size up. Breaking down, losing his nerve. Whether he knows his wife did it or not he sees everything points there and he’s just laying hold of anything to mark time. They go like that—I’ve seen ’em before.”
Rawson, who had been standing with his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the floor, moved to the chair:
“Let’s hear about this boy, Mr. Bassett—all this anger and hate business he’s been buzzing round.”
He sat down and lit a cigar. Through the smoke he watched Bassett with a narrowed glance as the director unfolded the story of Joe, the quarrel and Sybil’s accusation.
When it was over Rawson knocked the ash from his cigar, meditatively looking at the crumbling gray heap:
“Are you under the impression, Mr. Bassett, that her story was true—that the boy had been spying on her?”
“I don’t know. Of course she was in a high-keyed emotional state that might engender unjust suspicions. On the other hand you couldn’t trust his word, and there was big money offered.”
“And when you returned to New York you would have found it out.”
“Yes, I told him that.”