"For Africa?"

"Yes. It's grand."

"So soon." I felt slightly shocked.

He stared at me.

"What do you mean - soon? Oh." His brow cleared. "You mean after Barbara's death? Why on earth not? It's no good pretending, is it, that her death wasn't the greatest relief to me?"

He seemed amused by the expression on my face.

"I've not time, I'm afraid, for conventional attitudes. I fell in love with Barbara - she was a very pretty girl - married her and fell out of love with her again in about a year. I don't think it lasted even as long as that with her. I was a disappointment to her, of course. She thought she could influence me. She couldn't. I'm a selfish, pigheaded sort of brute, and I do what I want to do."

"But you did refuse this job in Africa on her account," I reminded him.

"Yes. That was purely financial, though. I'd undertaken to support Barbara in the way of life she was accustomed to. If I'd gone, it would have meant leaving her very short. But now" - he smiled a completely frank boyish smile - "it's turned out amazingly lucky for me."

I was revolted. It is true, I suppose, that many men whose wives die are not precisely heartbroken and everyone more or less knows the fact. But this was so blatant.

He saw my face, but did not seem put out.

"Truth," he said, "is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time and a lot of inaccurate speech."

I said sharply:

"And it doesn't worry you at all that your wife committed suicide?" He said thoughtfully:

"I don't really believe she did commit suicide. Most unlikely - "

"But then, what do you think happened?"

He caught me up.

"I don't know. I don't think I - want to know. Understand?" I stared at him. His eyes were hard and cold.

He said again:

"I don't want to know. I'm not - interested. See?" I didn't see - but I didn't like it.

III

I don't know when it was that I noticed that Stephen Norton had something on his mind. He had been very silent after the inquest, and after that and the funeral were over, he still walked about, his eyes on the ground and his forehead puckered. He had a habit of running his hands through his short grey hair until it stuck up on end like Strumel Peter. It was comical but quite unconscious and denoted some perplexity of his mind. He returned absent-minded answers when you spoke to him, and it did at last dawn upon me that he was definitely worried about something. I asked him tentatively if he had had bad news of any kind, which he promptly negatived. That closed the subject for the time being. But a little later he seemed to be trying to get an opinion from me on some matter in a clumsy, round-about way.