Harry Garlett added impulsively, “I don’t want you to think me a better man than I am. I did not always find it an easy situation——”
The other cut him short: “I accept what you said just now—that you two were happier, if anything, than the average married couple?”
“Yes, I think we were—in fact, I’m sure we were.” He spoke with sober decision.
“Now, tell me something about last spring. Did you think Mrs. Garlett more ailing than usual?”
“No,” said Garlett frankly, “I did not. She always made an effort to appear bright during the comparatively short times we were alone together, but, as I have already told you, she had become a complete invalid.”
He went on in a rather lower tone: “I wonder if you will understand when I tell you that she treated me, of late years, more as a loving mother treats a dear son than as a wife treats her husband——”
Both men remained silent for a moment, and the police inspector made a note in his book.
“Now, concerning the night your wife died? I understand the date was May the 28th, the time early on a Sunday morning.”
“The 27th of May was the thirteenth anniversary of our wedding-day,” began Harry Garlett. “And I’m ashamed to say I had forgotten it. But my wife remembered. And I found a gift, as a matter of fact, this gold cigarette case”—he took a small plain gold case out of his pocket—“waiting for me on my breakfast plate that Saturday morning. I then altered a plan I had made for going away for the week-end, and I decided to come home at one o’clock and spend as much of the day as was possible with my wife.”
“You were not alone during that walk back to your house?” suggested Mr. Kentworthy, in an indifferent tone. “You were, I believe, with a young lady.”