"You did your best, Bob." He patted him on the shoulder in farewell.
Kessler walked down a long marble corridor to a rotunda. His wife waved to him from across a staircase. She looked pert and cool and girlish in her ice-blue suit and perky hat. "Here, darling! Oh, you look so discouraged! Did George give you a hard time? He can be a brute when he wants to."
"Not really. He thinks I ought to call it quits."
"And don't you think so, dear?" she asked, taking his arm as they started down the stairs.
"Who me?" He grinned with sudden boyishness. "You know me. Never say die! If I thought we ought to give it up would I be trying to find this old bag Valeria Schmitt or whatever her name is? Brogan was right, that's just about as farfetched a notion as has come down the pike in a long time."
"Well, it may be farfetched, but she's not an old bag. I called her to make sure she'd be at home. I didn't know how long you'd take in there. She was very excited that you were coming to see her."
"Did she know who I was?"
"Of course, even aside from the letters. She's been following the investigation very carefully. She didn't seem to think it was at all curious that you wanted to see her because she knew someone twenty-five years ago."
Kessler laughed as they stepped out into the hot sunlight. "Well, if she's not a bag she's a bat. The more I think about it the crazier it seems. Suppose we get it over with now and start for Maine tonight. We'll be all set to go."
"Good! Good! That's the way I like to hear you talk. We'll make it a second honeymoon."