"Miss Fraenkel ..." I began, and Bill breathed, "I knew it!"
"In the course of a casual conversation," I continued, "Miss Fraenkel mentioned to me the fact that letters pass between them. In a way, I suppose, she shouldn't do it. A post-mistress is in a delicate position. And yet why not? One may say without prejudice that a certain man writes to his wife. We might even have assumed it, since we see the postman deliver letters with our own eyes. Miss Fraenkel, however, overstepped the bounds of prudence when she implied something wrong. Her exact words, as far as I can remember, were, 'It is funny he writes from New York.'"
"Does he?" said Bill.
"So Miss Fraenkel says. So you see, your ... our unspoken thoughts were justified, to say the least. We may recast Item one and say, A grass widow, undoubtedly Italian, with a husband in New York, twenty miles away."
"Well, in that case it's no business of ours," said Mac, as he spread the heavy viscid ink upon a new plate. "They may have their troubles, but it's pretty clear they don't need our sympathy, do they?"
"No," assented Bill.
"But what becomes of our inquiry?" I protested. "My dear Mac, this does credit to your kind heart, but since we are agreed to be honest, let us have the fruits of our honesty. Consider that anyhow we are doing them no harm. You are too gentle. Indeed, I think that we have been stand-offish. Why should not Bill call and—er—leave a card?"
"Me! Call on an Italian?" The voice was almost shrill.
"A neighbourly act," I remarked. "And we may find out something."
"We're a pretty lot, us and our honesty," put in Mac, in some disgust, rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist.