“They asked me about the man Himes,” she said, as she sat by my bedside, “and I was compelled to tell them how he had once been poor dad’s most intimate friend.”
“Did he ever meet Ella, do you think?” I asked suddenly.
“Never to my knowledge. Why?”
“I was only wondering—that’s all. Perhaps he knew Gordon-Wright.”
“I believe he did. They met one night when we were living in rooms at Fulham, if I recollect aright, and about six months later they went for a holiday together in Germany.”
“Did you ever meet that Italian doctor Gennaro Gavazzi who lived in Rome?”
She looked at me with a quick suspicion that she was unable to disguise.
“Why do you ask that?” she inquired, without reply to my question.
“Because he was a friend of your father’s. You told me so. I once knew him slightly,” I added, in order to reassure her.
“And you didn’t know much good concerning him, eh?” she asked, looking at me apprehensively.