"Well, there's my son," replied the clay-faced one blandly. "He is just starting in business for himself. But it's in Brooklyn."
"That doesn't matter."
He gave an address.
"Thank you very much," said Greg dryly. "Where is the crematory?"
"Silver Pond, Long Island. About eighteen miles out on the Port Franklin branch."
"What time are you sending the body out there?"
"It leaves here about five. I understand they are always put on the eight-fifteen train arriving at Silver Pond about nine."
"Is the crematory near the station?"
"Some three miles distant, I believe; in a very lonely neighborhood."
Greg thanked him and they parted, having reached an excellent understanding after all.