“Do you know who did it, Uncle David?”
A pipe came out of a pocket; blue smoke spiraled fragrantly about a face that had become placid and bland.
“Joe, the bank is built on a corner—at an angle to the corner. How far up the street can you see?”
“Quite a distance.”
“As far as Pelle’s factory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know who didn’t do it,” the blind man said, and stood up. “And,” he added quietly, “I think I know who did.”
Joe hoped it wasn’t Tessie Rich. They walked out of the village and up along the dirt road. The doctor said aloud: “If I could pick one more link—” and left the sentence unfinished and said no more. Tree toads made metallic clamor in the afternoon heat, and the earth smelled as though it were baked.
A clock struck three as they entered the house. Dr. Stone paced the porch and Lady stretched off in a patch of sun and watched him steadily. Joe brought up a tool from the cellar and prepared to trim the hedge.
A light delivery truck stopped in the road and a young man carried a suit up to the house.