Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that Cherry was alive; but his conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard the statement.
Mrs. Spash sighed. She arose, led the way into the hall. “This was Mr. Monroe’s room; and Mr. Gale’s room was back of his. He liked the room that overlooked the garden. Mr. Monroe—”
“That’s the big man, the sculptor,” Lindsay hazarded.
“How’d you know?” Mrs. Spash pounced on him again.
“Oh, I’ve talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood,” Lindsay returned evasively.
“That Mr. Monroe,” Mrs. Spash glided on easily, “was a case and a half. Nothing but talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. I used to admire to have him come.”
“Where is he?” Lindsay asked easily. He hoped Mrs. Spash did not guess how, mentally, he hung upon her answer.
“He went to Italy—to Florence—after Miss Murray died.” Mrs. Spash stopped. “He was in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. She wouldn’t have him though. He was an awful nice man. Sometimes I thought she would have him. But after Mr. Lewis came— Queer, worn’t it? I don’t know whether Mr. Monroe’s alive or dead.”
Again Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that he was alive, but again gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions.