'Nothing of the kind. Who's been telling you stories about my James?'
'Then the only thing I can say is that I don't understand it in the least.'
She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to me; and it's not for me to pretend that I know what she meant. The only thing I know is that what I said was clear enough. She went back to the table and began looking through James's photographs again, examining them that closely you'd have thought they were puzzles.
'It's impossible that there can be any mistake; impossible. And yet, how can he have gone out in perfect health upon the Sunday, and--It's beyond my comprehension. There's a knot somewhere which wants unpicking. Do you know I'm inclined to think that you know even less about your husband than you suppose.'
'I know all I want to know.'
'I mean with reference to his health. I fancy that he had not such good health as you seem to imagine.'
'You must excuse me saying, miss, that I can't help what you fancy. May I ask what you know about my husband?'
'I?'
'Yes, miss--you!'
She looked at me as if my question had startled her. Then she laughed; it seemed to me not quite a natural laugh; as if she wanted to appear at her ease when she wasn't.