“Who are you?”
“Tim’s wife.” There was pride in her voice.
I wondered if a bunch of Law was waiting for me in the house, I didn’t think so. I entered, followed her along the passage to a room at the back of the house.
The room was square-shaped and lit by a paraffin lamp. A fishing net hung in folds along one of the walls. Slickers, a south-wester, rubber boots hung near it. There was a table, three straight-backed chairs, a plush arm-chair and a cupboard. There were other odds and ends. The place was clean. Somehow the room managed to look cosy and like home.
Mrs. Duval was a big woman, long-legged, big-handed, big-hipped, still handsome. She looked a young forty-five, and her red-brown face was strong. Black hair, without a strand of white, capped her head like painted tar.
She eyed me over. Her china-blue eyes, deep-set, were thoughtful.
“Tim said you were all right,” she said. “I hope he knows what he is talking about.”
I grinned. “He’s trusting,” I said. “But I’m harmless enough.”
She nodded briefly. “You’d better sit,” she said, and went over to the stove. “I guessed you’d be out here in a while. I kept something hot for you.”
I found I was hungry.