After this revelation, Catherine was literally speechless. She could only wait for Galton to continue. His eyes were resting on her intently, and she felt her hands begin to shake.

“I have one more question to ask you, then I’ll leave you to your Sunday,” Galton said heavily. “Have you gone to Leona with…any kind of problem? Since your folks died?”

Catherine felt like a mouse being played with by a big old cat. Her thoughts were slow. She stubbed out her cigarette as she tried to recall, though she was sure she had never taken a problem of any kind to Leona. Her mind wandered. She tried to imagine herself crying on Leona’s shoulder over some girlish difficulty, and decided that tears would have just rolled off that starched white shoulder.

When she looked at Galton again, she realized her long pause had cost her something. There was once again a look of sternness in his face.

That’s not fair, she thought despairingly.

“I would never take a problem to Leona,” she said. Her voice was as weary and watchful as Galton’s. Even to her own ears, she sounded unconvincing.

“I thought it would be better if you didn’t come down to the station again,” Galton murmured. There was a sadness, a regret, in his voice. He too was remembering the days he had swung her up in the air.

Catherine gave up trying. She had done her best, had cleared herself as thoroughly as she could. There was something, or perhaps several things, that Galton wouldn’t tell her. He had obviously figured she would be more open in her own home, in a private conversation; he had made a concession to her in that respect. Somehow she had failed to meet his standards.