“I’d no idea you lived here,” Trent said, shaking his hand. “I thought you were a New Yorker.”
Westward pointed to a modest house. “This is what I call my office,” he explained. “I do my writing there and house my fishing tackle and my specimens.”
“I wish you’d let me see them,” Trent suggested smiling. “I’ve often marveled at the way you catch ’em.”
It was past twelve when he had finished talking over what Mr. Westward had to show. He realized he had forgotten the matter which brought him to Groton. When Mr. Westward asked him to luncheon he hesitated a moment. This hesitation was born not of a disinclination to accept the angler’s hospitality but rather to the feeling that he was out for business and if he failed at it might be led as a criminal to whatever jail was handy. And were he thus a prisoner it would embarrass a good sportsman. But Mr. Westward gained his point and led Trent to a big rambling house further down the street that was a rich store house of the old and quaint furniture of Colonial days.
Mrs. Westward proved to be a woman of charm and culture, endowed with a quick wit and a gift of entertaining comment on what local happenings were out of the ordinary.
“Has Charles told you of the murder?” she asked.
“We’ve been talking fish,” Anthony Trent explained.
“Oh you fishermen!” she laughed. “I often tell my husband he won’t take any notice of the Last Trump if he’s fishing or talking of trout. We actually had a murder here last night.”
“I hope it was some one who could be easily spared,” Trent returned, “and not a friend.”
“I could spare him,” Mrs. Westward said decisively. “I know his wife and she has my friendship but for Andrew Apthorpe I have never cared.”