“I’m sorry about your sister’s death,” I said.

“What sister?”

I had been assuming that he was a son of the Webers, but he only boarded with the family. His name was George Langley; he was ten years old; his father was dead and his mother was in the hospital with TB. He was apparently a foster child and I wondered what sort of court or agency would place him with people like the Webers and Mrs. Reddy.

After we chatted for a couple of minutes, George invited me in. With plenty of misgivings, I entered the living room and sat on the sofa, while the boy sat across from me, watching me gravely.

I noticed now how unlived-­in the room seemed. How could I ever have thought it a pleasant place? The furniture was probably of better quality than that to be found in the average local farmhouse, but there were no books, magazines or newspapers anywhere, no pictures on the walls, or objects of any kind on the mantel. And there was no dirt anywhere, not a speck of dust on the table beside me, and around the edges of the rugs the floors gleamed. If the rest of the house was similar, I thought, it must be a terrible place for a little boy to live.

I asked how he enjoyed being with the Webers.

“Fine,” he said guardedly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since last winter.”

“Do you like all the people here?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t convincing.

“How about Mrs. Reddy?”

“She’s OK.”

I realized it wasn’t fair of me to raise doubts in his mind. Mrs. Reddy could be evil incarnate and still be good to the boy.

“Did they say why they were going to Ashland?”

“They had to identify Stephanie.”

That shouldn’t take long. They’d probably be coming back at any moment, unless they were being detained for questioning.

“I suppose Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber were very shocked when they were told what happened to Stephanie.” It was nasty, but necessary.

George thought for a moment. “Well they didn’t cry,” he said finally. “Not like I cried when my father died.”

“Why do you suppose they didn’t cry?”

He thought again. “Maybe they didn’t really like Stephanie.”

“I wonder why.”

“Maybe because she wouldn’t go to the meetings.”

“What meetings are those?”

“The ones they have here. Would you like to see the meeting room?”

“Yes, very much.” Was there time enough before they came home?

We went to the rear of the house. He opened the door of a room adjoining the dining room, switched on a light, and held the door for me. I entered fearfully, not knowing what to expect.