“You’ve done all right,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with your conduct. She didn’t plan to tell us about whatever she’s done. For a wife—a widow—a mission like this has a similarity to going through the man’s pockets. She’s trying to make it up to him. She knows that she has something to hide. If we learn anything about her husband, she’ll be on his level, in our eyes, because we will have learned about her, too.”

“Then she really expects us to learn something about him,” Florence said.

“In some ways. She’s running away from the idea.” The telephone light began to flash. “She loved him, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. Half the reason for her being here is to see us fail. She’s gone this far believing in an accident or some sudden, inexplicable death wish. She can go the rest of the way, believing it, if she learns even a little more than she does now.”

“I told Sheila which calls to let through,” Florence said. She sat up and took the receiver and put her hand over the mouthpiece. “How do you feel about an accident or what you said?”

“It’s nonsense, and when she’s using her head, Mrs. MacIver knows it, too.”

She said hello, and reached for her notebook. As she began to write he swung his chair away from her and stared at the door. He could bring up the image of Colin MacIver at will. The face looking into the camera had the mark of a dead man on it, which was Leland’s own doing. He had seen too much sudden, violent death for his own health’s sake and he knew it—but he would have been dishonest if he had avoided this case. Six months ago he had checked out a life insurance claim upstate in which a truck driver had gone off a mountain road, had been thrown clear, and then had his truck roll over him. The State Police had had beautiful pictures.