“Why not? I tell you, Bev, I was nearly crazy. I'm nearly crazy now.”
“What did Saunders say?”
“If he didn't know Clark was dead, he'd say it was Clark.”
She was worried by that time, but far more collected than he was. She sat, absently tapping the shelf with a nail file, and reflecting.
“All right,” she said. “Suppose he was? What then? He has been in hiding for ten years. Why shouldn't he continue to hide? What would bring him out now? Unless he needed money. Was he shabby?”
“No,” he said sulkily. “He was with a girl. He was dressed all right.”
“You didn't say anything, except to Saunders?”
“No I'm not crazy.”
“I'd better see Joe,” she reflected. “Go and get him, Fred. And tell Alice she needn't wait.”
She got up and moved about the room, putting things away and finding relief in movement, a still beautiful woman, with rather accentuated features and an easy carriage. Without her make-up the stage illusion of her youth was gone, and she showed past suffering and present strain. Just then she was uneasy and resentful, startled but not particularly alarmed. Her reason told her that Judson Clark, even if he still lived and had been there that night, meant to leave the dead past to care for itself, and wished no more than she to revive it. She was surprised to find, as she moved about, that she was trembling.