I found myself thinking of those days.
I had known Howard even then.
Indeed, it was through me that he met Katherine.
Margaret had had a brief unhappy year somewhere in Europe; then she died.
And Wallie had needed a mother.
But Katherine had not proved to be a mother to him.
He had resented her, and she had resented him.
She had never liked him, and after Judy was born this dislike greatly increased.
It accentuated her jealousy of Margaret that Margaret had borne Howard a son, and that she had not; for Katherine was passionately in love with her husband.
And she had kept nothing of Margaret’s that she could avoid.
Even Joseph had had to go, and so I took him.
Not unusual, I daresay, this jealousy of second wives for the women they have followed, even when that woman is dead.
But it worked badly for Wallie.
Certainly Wallie was not blameless for his alienation from his father, but also certainly Katherine never raised a finger to restore the peace between them.
Wallie was too reminiscent of his mother, fiery, passionate, undisciplined, handsome.
When he had learned that Margaret was dying in Biarritz, abandoned by the man for whom she had left Howard, he had demanded permission to go to her.
But he was refused on the score of his age—he was only fourteen at the time—and in desperation he had taken out of Howard’s wallet the money for a second-class passage there.
He was too late, at that, but Howard never forgave him the theft, and he had made the mistake of telling Katherine.
After her marriage, when Wallie was in the house, she kept her purse locked away.
And he knew it and hated her for it.
But he was not there very often.
First at school and later at college, Katherine kept him away as much as possible. And after that had come the war.
Naturally then the relationship between Judy and Wallie was almost as remote as the relationship between Wallie and Sarah.
To have him grow morose and exhausted when Sarah disappeared was surprising enough, but to see him grow pale and furious over the attack on Judy was actually startling.
He was quieter, however, when he came back from the garage.
He planted himself in front of me, like a man who had made a resolution.
“See here,” he said. “How fond are you of Jim Blake?”
“I like him. I don’t know that it’s any more than that.”
“What time was it when he telephoned here that night?”
“About a quarter past seven.”
“And he asked for Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he do that?
Was he in the habit of calling Sarah?
Of course he wasn’t.
How do you know that when she left the house that night it wasn’t to see Jim Blake? To meet him somewhere?”
“I don’t believe it,” I said sharply.
“Why would she meet him?
I don’t believe they’ve exchanged two dozen words in twenty years.”
“She went out to meet him,” he insisted.
“I know that. I’ve made it my business to know it.
I’ve been talking to that darky of his.
You know his habits; you know he dines late and dresses for dinner.
Well, that night he didn’t.
He dined early and he put on a golf suit.
And he left the house at seven o’clock.”
“Good heavens, Wallie!
If a man may not eat when he’s hungry and dress as he likes—”
“Listen,” he said doggedly.
“That’s not all.