"That fatheaded widow, I suppose you mean?" said Mr. Pratt, who was again a weekend visitor at the Stone House. "That woman ought to be stood on hot bricks or something, to wake her up and bring her to, I should say. She simply threw away the case for the prosecution—simply threw it away."
"Mea culpa," said Mrs. Bradley inexcusably. Pratt, lighting a pipe, looked at her steadfastly.
"You're up to something," he said. "Don't tell me we've got to whitewash the unspeakable Bella?"
Mrs. Bradley grinned and asked him whether, in such case, she could count upon his assistance.
"Count on me in any way you like," responded Mr. Pratt gallantly. "But tell me all first. I am all ears and curiosity."
"Well, come with me to interview Muriel Turney, then," said Mrs. Bradley. "We can do it to-morrow. It isn't so far from here. I don't need to notify her that we are coming. She is pretty sure to be at home. And this evening, between now and the time you go to sleep, I wish you'd re-read Bella Foxley's diary. I am going to confront her with it when I visit her next time. I think I may get some interesting reactions."
"You know, you're a public menace," said Mr. Pratt.
"I am wondering," said Mrs. Bradley, "whether—but let me begin at the beginning."
Muriel looked at her in perplexity. Her weak face was pale, and she had given a cry of surprise and, it seemed, of relief, when she had opened the door to find Mrs. Bradley waiting on the step.
"Yes, certainly," she said vaguely. "Sit down, won't you?"
Mrs. Bradley sat down.
"To begin at the beginning, then," she said——" or, rather, at the end, if you do not object to a paradox—what are you going to do if, after all, Bella Foxley is acquitted? It is a fact we have to face, you know, that she may be. What further steps are you prepared to take?"
"Why—why, I don't know, I'm sure. Do you mean you think she will be acquitted?"
"I was surprised that they did not acquit her this time."
"Yes, I suppose—that is, it would have been dreadful, wouldn't it? Do you really think she'll get off?"
"We must be prepared for it," repeated Mrs. Bradley. "Now, then, what do you say?"
"Why, nothing. Poor Bella! I suppose she's been punished already. Perhaps it would be for the best."
"Did your husband possess a sense of humour?" asked Mrs. Bradley. Muriel, not unnaturally, looked completely bewildered by this question, which appeared to have no bearing whatsoever upon what had already been said. She begged Mrs. Bradley's pardon nervously.
"That's all right," said Mrs. Bradley benignly, waving a yellow claw. "Don't mention it."
"I—I don't think I heard what you said."
"Oh, yes, I expect you did. What did you think I said?"
"Had—had Tom a sense of humour?"
"That's it. Well, had he? In his writings, more particularly."
"Well, he—sometimes he would be a bit what he used to call jocular—about the spirits, you know, and what they said."
"He used to be a bit jocular," said Mrs. Bradley solemnly. Then she shuddered—or so it seemed to the unhappy Muriel.
"Of course, a lot of his writing had to be very serious. It was kind of technical," Muriel added. "The Society of Psychical Research ..."
"You don't tell me that he wrote for their journal?"
"I—Oh, well, perhaps he didn't, then. I really don't know what he wrote for. He never bothered me with it. He always said I needn't trouble my head."
"And—was all the love-making on one side?"
"Don't beg my pardon," said Mrs. Bradley gently. "Yes, that was what I said."
"But—I mean—isn't it rather—married people don't talk about such things."
"Why not?"
"Well ..."
"I thought most of the divorce cases were because of it."
"Because of ...?" Muriel's colour heightened. She half rose from her chair. "I don't think I understand what you're talking about."
"Well, this: the boys were starved to death—or nearly to death, we'll say. The bodies—alive or dead—that didn't seem to matter very much to a cruel and wicked woman—were buried. Well, it struck me afterwards—after the trial, I mean— that there was a discrepancy somewhere. Do you see what I mean?"
"No. No, I don't."
"Curious."
"I don't know what you're getting at," said Muriel wildly and shrilly. "But if you say any more about those wretched boys I shall scream."
"Are we alone in the house?"
"I don't know."
"And yet you came to the door. Do you answer the door all the time?"
"Yes. It is an arrangement with my landlady. She answers all the knocks some