“Though perhaps it isn’t a business matter,” she suggested.

I didn’t say anything.

She laughed⁠—a short laugh with something sharp in it.

“I’m really not ordinarily so much of a busybody as you probably think,” she said gaily. “But you’re so excessively secretive that I can’t help being curious. You aren’t a bootlegger, are you? Donald changes them so often.”

I let her get whatever she could out of a grin.

A telephone bell rang downstairs. Mrs. Willsson stretched her green-slippered feet out toward the burning coal and pretended she hadn’t heard the bell. I didn’t know why she thought that necessary.

She began: “I’m afraid I’ll ha⁠—” and stopped to look at the maid in the doorway.