“Oh, my, no,” said her daughter.

Duff was led in then by the deputy sheriff. Astonishingly, he didn’t look like someone who had been in an auto wreck, let alone a fight with the police. As on the day I had gone with him to the high school, he seemed his old self. His shirt, sweater and jeans were clean. His face was unmarked and his hair was neatly combed. In fact, he seemed more presentable than he had when he went off that morning.

“Hello, Mother,” he said brightly. His smile faded when he saw Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber, but he greeted them politely.­

“We’ve got a good lawyer for you, Duff, so you don’t have to worry about anything,” Mrs. Reddy told him. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Matson.”

“I’d rather do it another time,” I said, but I let her lead us out to the street.

Rose drove us to the garage to which the Olds had been towed. It was a mass of junk—unrepairable, in the view of the insurance agent who joined us at the garage. The agent also implied that his company might be canceling our policy.

Since we needed another car immediately, I rented a Ply­mouth from a Hertz agency. Then I managed to convince Mrs. Reddy that I really couldn’t talk with her lawyer before consulting my husband. I thanked her and her daughter—I really was grateful for their help—and Duff and I got in the Plymouth. I was waiting for it, but he didn’t suggest that he would like to drive.

Mrs. Reddy leaned in the window on his side. “Come see us the next time you feel like running around the countryside,” she said.

“Duff won’t be driving anywhere for a while, since the police have taken his license,” I said.

“He can walk to our house. It’s not that far from yours. And we can tell him things about the history of this area and the Caine family. That’s what you’re interested in, isn’t it?” She paused and then said, “Duff.” It was as though she had forgotten his name momentarily.

“Any explanations?” I asked him when we were on our way.

“No, Mother,” he said.

“Then do you mind if I ask some questions? Why were you driving the car instead of being in school?”

“Oh, I had an early study period and it was such a nice day . . .”

“Route Ninety-­Six is on the other side of Ashland. You couldn’t possibly have gotten all the way over there and back to school during one study period—even at ninety miles an hour.”

He shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I just found myself driving farther and farther.”

“And did you just find yourself attacking the policemen?” It was incredible that my Duff had done that.