“That is not possible,” he corrected me eagerly. “My darling and Mrs. Main are not acquainted.”
“But your wife and Main were acquainted?”
He giggled and brushed his tie with his whisker again.
“How well acquainted?”
He shrugged his padded shoulders up to his ears.
“I know not,” he said merrily. “I employ a detective.”
“Yeah?” I scowled at him. “You employ this one to find out who killed and robbed Main—and for nothing else. If you think you’re employing him to dig up your family secrets, you’re as wrong as Prohibition.”
“But why? But why?” He was flustered. “Have I not the right to know? There will be no trouble over it, no scandal, no divorce suing, of that be assured. Even Jeffrey is dead, so it is what one calls ancient history. While he lived I knew nothing, was blind. After he died I saw certain things. For my own satisfaction—that is all, I beg you to believe—I should like to know with certainty.”
“You won’t get it out of me,” I said bluntly. “I don’t know anything about it except what you’ve told me, and you can’t hire me to go further into it. Besides, if you’re not going to do anything about it, why don’t you keep your hands off—let it sleep?”
“No, no, my friend.” He had recovered his bright-eyed cheerfulness. “I am not an old man, but I am fifty-two. My dear wife is eighteen, and a truly lovely person.” He giggled. “This thing happened. May it not happen again? And would it not be the part of husbandly wisdom to have—shall I say—a hold on her? A rein? A check? Or if it never happen again, still might not one’s dear wife be the more docile for certain information which her husband possesses?”