Mrs. Wasson put down her sewing and looked at him thoughtfully.
“Did the boys tell you anything about the young man who visited Henry Livingstone now and then?”
“No. They were not very communicative.”
“I suppose they wouldn't tell. Yet I don't see, unless—” She stopped, lost in some field of speculation where he could not follow her. “You know, we haven't much excitement here, and when this boy was first seen around the place—he was here mostly in the summer—we decided that he was a relative. I don't know why we considered him mysterious, unless it was because he was hardly ever seen. I don't even know that that was deliberate. For that matter Mr. Livingstone wasn't much more than a name to us.”
“You mean, a son?”
“Nobody knew. He was here only now and then.”
Bassett moved in his chair and looked at her.
“How old do you suppose this boy was?” he asked.
“He was here at different times. When Mr. Livingstone died I suppose he was in his twenties. The thing that makes it seem odd to me is that the men didn't mention him to you.”
“I didn't ask about him, of course.”