Kintyre and Corinna walked hand in hand back toward his own car. They stopped to pick up her shoes. "I'm afraid you ruined your stockings," he said inanely.
"You don't have to talk," she said. "I don't need it."
He was grateful for that. The silence in which they drove home (she did not lean against him, but she sat close by) was somehow like—memory groped—like Bruce's music which Margery had played for him a few centuries ago. He wondered if she had heard it yet.
"I hope you'll be able to sleep," he said at her door.
"Oh, yes, I think so." She considered him and asked gravely: "Why are you doing this for us?"
"I can't stop now," he said. "I'm in up to the eyebrows."
"But why did you begin? Not for Bruce's sake, surely. He wouldn't have cared about being avenged."
"Which is what the police are for, anyway. I don't like this evading them that we've been forced into."
"Well?" she continued.
"Why do you want to know?" he dodged.