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to hear me out.”
    “Yes. Of course.”
    “You can imagine how debilitating all that is—having your own blood drained out while new blood is being pumped in. No, of course you can’t.”
    “Yes,” Fletch said. “No.”
    “Over time, of course, it weakened him more and more. Poor Thomas. Running the company he wanted no one to know how sick he was. Alex Corcoran, the president, is really only chief of sales—a big, hale-and-hearty fellow whose mind is permanently stuck on golf. In fact, he’s playing in some tournament over at the Southworth Country Club this afternoon. Charley Blaine, the Vice-president and treasurer, is a superb backroom man, but one of the most dependent characters you ever saw in your life. If everything isn’t just perfect, he overreacts and does crazy things. And Thomas was the kind of man who didn’t want his children worrying about him. They’re beautiful, happy, successful children. Ta-ta—our daughter, Roberta—is teaching at her old prep school, Southworth Preparatory, and half-way through her first teaching year they’ve made her Head of House. And Tom is finishing up his pre-medical studies at the College. They are both doing extremely well. My husband wanted to live. But these treatments, these blood exchanges, had to happen more and more frequently. It was a cumulative disease, Mister Fletcher. He was getting weaker and weaker.
    “Then we heard about this new technique the doctors in Switzerland had developed. I can’t pretend to understand it, or explain it. It has something to do with not letting the new blood mingle with the old blood, during the exchange. I take it you don’t know anything about medicine, either?”
    “No.”
    “Vacuums or something were to be created in the body. I’m not sure only Swiss doctors are doing it, but Thomas heard about this doctor in Switzerland who was the first, or the best, or something.The most respected. So, while I stayed to run the company as well as I could, he went to Switzerland for these extensive treatments. All the news was good. He was doing fine. And then he died.”
    She was looking directly at Fletch as she spoke, rather in the manner of someone insulted. Then she put a hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut.
    “Mister Fletcher, will you please leave us alone, and stop this insanity of yours?”
    Fletch tried to make himself comfortable in the soft divan. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Mrs. Bradley,” he said, “why did your Vice-president and treasurer, Charles Blaine, refer last week to your husband as alive? Why did he show me recently dated memos purportedly from your husband?”
    Enid Bradley raised her head and blinked her eyes around the upper corners of the room. She spoke gently. “That’s why I’m seeing you, Mister Fletcher. I’m now convinced of your innocence—that you meant to do nothing cruel. I’m afraid we’re both victims of someone else’s sickness.”
    “Why would he do such a thing, Mrs. Bradley?”
    “Charley is a worrisomely tight man, if you know what I mean. Anything out of the ordinary rattles him. He was terribly fond—worshipful—of my husband. Thomas would make the silliest little joke, and Charley would repeat it and laugh all night. I tried to break the news of Thomas’ death gently. No, I did not offer the local newspapers obituaries. No, I did not run a memorial service for him locally. Maybe I should have. Maybe if I had done so all this painful confusion would have been avoided. You see, I took over the company only in Thomas’ absence. Everybody believed he was coming back. Then Thomas died. I didn’t know what to do. Thank God for Francine. She’s been such a help.” Enid Bradley looked into her lap. “She suggested I break the news slowly, gently, to each person individually—which I did. I even waited months—until last fall—to tell people, so the hurt of his death would be somewhat removed from them. I don’t think Charley ever accepted