“Pull over on the shoulder a minute, Mac,” he said. They had nearly reached the lane leading up to the lodge. MacPherson obeyed in silence. Denton fumbled for his cigarettes. The taxi man accepted one and pressed his dashboard lighter. He passed the lighter to Denton, and Denton passed it back. “I have to think,” he said. Mac settled back patiently. Denton smoked in agitated puffs. So it had not been Norman Wyatt at all. All the time it had been old Trevor. What an act he had put on, the suave bastard! It was easy to see now, Denton thought, where he had gone wrong. He had never seriously considered Ardis’s father as the man because of his age. And yet, on reconsideration, a husband nearly seventy years old would hardly have dismayed Angel. Her sex life would never have been a problem; there would be younger men everywhere, drooling for a chance to shack up with her. At that the old boy was handsome, even distinguished-looking. Maybe he was potent sexually, too; his own daughter laughingly referred to his eye for the ladies.
