EDT George Caswell had reached the age when the death of a contemporary was not unusual and, had it not been for the events of the day, he would probably not have carried the news of Avery Bullard’s death back to the dinner table. He made it a rule not to discuss business with Kitty. He had married her—partially, at least—because she took his mind off stock brokerage. Since she had been admirably successful in the accomplishment of that purpose he had never seen any reason to vary her role. Now, however, walking back to the table after taking the telephone call, his face reflected a concern that he was aware his wife had not missed. “Will you have dessert, dear, or just coffee?” she asked watching him carefully. “Only coffee.” “Bad news, dear?” “I’m afraid so. Avery Bullard is dead.” “Bullard? Oh, he’s that man from Pennsylvania, isn’t he—the furniture one?” “Yes, the Tredway Corporation,” he said, surprised that she had recognized Bullard’s name.
