The firm signature put Bain in mind of Mrs. Lurlin’s elegant, pale look; and he spent most of the intervening evening and night and morning in a reverie of nearly forgotten faces, men he had alienated by his negligence or his improvidence, women he had found hollow or who had found him exasperating. None of these ever thought of him now, even when dreaming before the fire. And why should they?
*****
She looked at him steadily. “I believe you’re decent. I have no friends, and I hate to be solitary here, day on day. I’m afraid to be alone.”
“I wouldn’t take you to be timid, Mrs. Lurlin.”
“Don’t you understand? I thought you’d guessed.” She came a trifle closer to Bain; and she said, in her low sweet voice, “I’m afraid of my husband.”
Bain stared at her. “Your husband? I understood–I thought that he’s dead.”
“Quite,” said Ann Lurlin.
Somewhere in that Minoan maze of a house, a board or table creaked; the wind rattled a sash; and this little room at the stairfoot was musty. “You know, don’t you?” Mrs. Lurlin whispered. “You know something’s near.”
*****
“It will be a year next Friday. Now I’m going to confess something.” She turned her little body so that her eyes looked directly into Bain’s. “When I saw you in the square, I wondered if I could use you. I had some notion that I might stick a life between myself and… You looked no better than a dare-devil. Do you mind my saying that? Something in me whispered, ‘He was made to take chances; that’s what he’s good for.’ I meant you to come to see me. I don’t suppose it flatters you, Ralph, to have been snared by a madwoman.”