“What does Bessie know about all this, Pat?” he said. “She knows something, or suspects something.”

“I think she suspects somebody. I wouldn’t let it bother me, Tony. It’s rather foolish, really. What can she know?”

I put a match to the fire and got him to sit down in a big chair beside it. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d say she suspects me! Good God, the only time I ever saw Morgan I liked the fellow.”

He did not stay long, nor had he much more to say. He got up and yawned, as though he was physically exhausted.

“Sorry, Pat,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s not important. Go to bed and get some sleep. You look all in.”

But I suppose nobody slept much at the Cloisters that night. Amy called me rather late and I had the impression that someone was listening in on the telephone. The message was unimportant. She said that Lydia was bearing up well, but that Audrey was having what Amy called a fit.

“I stood all I could. Then I doped her to the eyes.”

I gathered that Audrey had been dramatizing herself as usual, and that Amy was fed up with her. But aware of that listener I said little.

I had only settled myself in bed again when Bessie came in. I remember the light shining on that ash-blond hair of hers, and on the blue satin house gown she was wearing. But when she sat down and took a cigarette from my box I saw that her face, cleaned for the night, looked colorless and almost old. For the first time I wondered about her age, whether she was older than Tony.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” she said. “I suppose I’m tired, and this thing about the pool—” She shivered. “Only a few nights ago we were all swimming there. Who would have believed—” She let that go, and looked thoughtfully at her cigarette.

“What do you make of it, Pat?” she asked.

“Not a thing. Of course, Bill Sterling didn’t do it.”

“There might be other people who would want him out of the way.” She glanced at me. “I rather think there are.”

I sat up in bed and stared at her. “You sound as if you knew him. Or knew something about him.”

She considered that, her eyes cold and calculating. “I don’t think so. Of course, I know a lot of people. I met a man named Morgan years ago in Paris, but it’s a common name.”

I did not believe her. I felt confident that she had known Don Morgan and known him well, and that she was leaving herself a way out if it was discovered. But she dismissed that with a gesture.

“I thought I’d give you a word of advice,” she said smoothly. “Keep out of things that don’t concern you; and keep my husband out of your room. It doesn’t look well.”