He drew out his watch and looked at it without knowing what he did or why or observing the hour.
“By the way,” said I, “who lives next door—in there?”
“Who?” he answered. “Why, the Estabrooks.”
“A large family?”
“Two. Jermyn Estabrook and his wife. They were married six years ago and have lived there ever since. We know them very little. His father has never forgiven my objection to his membership on a certain directorate in 1890. The wife was the daughter of Colfax, the probate judge. They have no children. But perhaps you know as well as I.”
“No,” said I, studying his face. “I know nothing of them. Are they happy? Is there anything to lead you to believe that some tragedy hangs over them?”
For a moment he looked at me as if he believed me insane; then he laughed nervously.
“Bless me, no,” he said. “Imagine a couple very happy together, surrounded by influences the most refined, leading a conservative life well intrenched as to money, the husband a partner and heir-apparent to an important law practice, the wife an attractive young woman who rides well and cares little for excitement. You will have imagined the Estabrooks.”
“They and their servants are in the house?”
“Yes. Possibly Jermyn is away just now. I think I heard so. But I do not know.”