He wore the dinner clothes without which he was never seen after six o’clock, alone or not, and for once he did not talk about Don immediately. He made her a cocktail, admired her summer evening dress, and served her an excellent small dinner, with some fine old claret. He did not even discuss the murder, except to say that he hoped the police were not troubling her. He rambled on. Old Nathaniel Ward was not looking well. There was a barmaid at the club, doing nicely too. This idea that women couldn’t mix drinks— He came at last and deviously to Elinor. “She hasn’t been here lately, I suppose?” “She doesn’t like it. No. She’s at Newport.” “And you were with her last week?” She felt herself stiffening. There was something coming, she knew. It came, almost immediately. “I was quite sure of that, of course,” he said, in his courtly manner. “It just happens that Mrs. Ward said something about somebody seeing a car like Elinor’s here one night last week. I’m glad you can say where she was.”
