“I’d like to get a few facts, if you don’t mind. Is Mr. Cramer, your husband, around?”

“No. Adam died four years ago, of a coronary they said. They said a coronary. But that isn’t true. He died of a broken heart!” The woman’s expression did not change. As she spoke, her voice grew softer, lower, became a whisper. “Adam was the best man in the world, Mr. Driscoll, and certainly the best husband. He was a marvelous provider.”

Driscoll nodded. “I thought—”

“We met in Chicago, when I was a young girl. Do you know how old I was then?” She smiled. “I was seventeen. I’d been married before, of course. My first was a charming person, and it all happened very fast; I’m ashamed to say how fast. But we were married, and it seemed to be just fine. Then he started to gamble. With cards. Henry always seemed to lose, he lost all the time, but it didn’t cure him. I’d plead with him and beg him, and he’d say ‘Laura, don’t you worry, I’m finished with that life!’ but it would go on happening. You have never seen such a handsome man. I’ll show you his picture, and you’ll see.”

She rose before Driscoll could stop her, and went into the bedroom. She returned within moments, holding a thick, square photograph album. The pages were an eighth of an inch thick, and the sides were dusted with gold. She turned three pages and gave the book to Driscoll.

“Have you ever seen such a handsome man?”

Driscoll looked at a foxed, stained photograph that could not have been taken any later than 1910. The man was certainly handsome, though the youthful features seemed spoiled by the traditional mustache. He passed it to Link, then said, “Very handsome, Mrs. Cramer. May I ask his name?”

“Henry. He sang, Mr. Driscoll, and his voice was as sweet as the wind in a meadow. But perhaps all Irish people have that ability, I don’t know. Do they?”

Driscoll shrugged.