“And your husband died there?”
“Yes.”
“That was thirteen years ago, I understand.—How long before that had it been since you had seen Mr. Greene?”
“About a year.”
“So that would be fourteen years ago.”
An apprehension, bordering on fear, showed through the woman’s morose calmness.
“And you came all the way to New York to seek Mr. Greene’s help,” mused Vance. “Why were you so confident that he would give you employment after your husband’s death?”
“Mr. Greene was a very good man,” was all she would say.
“He had perhaps,” suggested Vance, “done some other favor for you which made you think you could count on his generosity—eh, what?”
“That’s neither here nor there.” Her mouth closed tightly.