"Poole?" Porter was tense.
"Her husband. He could not make her happy."
"Was she—the one in fault?"
Colin shrugged. "There are always two stories. As I have said, she looked like a saint."
"I should like to see—the picture." Porter tried to speak lightly. "May I come up some day to your rooms?"
Colin's face beamed.
"I'm getting into new quarters. I shall want your opinion—call me up before you come."
It was Colin who went home with Delilah in Porter's car. Porter pleaded important business, and walked for an hour around the Speedway, his brain in a whirl.
Then Mary knew—Mary knew—and it had made no difference in her thought of Roger Poole!