She seemed reluctant to reply, but finally, she nodded once. She might have been an attractive woman if her face hadn’t been so bloodless and pinched. Plainly, she was under a great strain and had summoned every ounce of her courage and strength to bear up under it.

“When do you expect him back?” Frank asked.

Her hands were gripping each other so tightly in front of her that the knuckles were white. “I don’t… Do you mind…?” She took a fortifying breath. “Could you tell me why you wish to see him?”

The question had cost her a great deal of effort, and Frank didn’t like the feeling of pity that stirred in his chest. Pity was an emotion that could get him in trouble if he let it blind him to the truth. Still, he had no intention of telling her his real reason for wanting to find her husband. He’d promised Giddings not to say anything to ruin him for at least a few days. He’d broken that promise with Smythe only because Smythe obviously knew about Giddings’s faults and the old attorney had no intention of making the news public. Mrs. Giddings would be hurt by the knowledge, however, so until it was absolutely necessary for her to know, he was determined to keep it from her.

“It’s a private matter,” he told her. “Nothing to concern you. I just need some information from him.”

He saw the muscles in her jaw work, as if she were clenching it to help maintain her composure. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior light, he could see that her dark hair, which was pulled severely back from her face and knotted at her neck, had streaks of silver running through it. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep, and tension practically radiated from her. “Did Mr. Smythe send you?” she asked.

“He gave me your address,” Frank admitted.

He’d thought the reply harmless enough, but Mrs. Giddings cried out. The sound was short and sharp, as if someone had struck her, and she instantly covered her mouth with one hand. “He said he wouldn’t prosecute!” she said when she’d regained a little of her composure. “He said if Gilbert resigned quietly, he wouldn’t press charges! Surely he hasn’t changed his mind. He only cares about his good name. He must know Gilbert would never say a thing!” She looked as if she might faint.

“Maybe you should call your maid or something,” Frank suggested, knowing he didn’t want to deal with a fainting woman.

“I don’t have a maid!” she said, her voice almost strangled with bitterness. “I’ve let all the servants go. Can’t you see? Why do you think I answered my own door? And we paid the money back. We had to sell almost everything we owned, but we paid back every penny. What more does he want from us?”

“What money is that?” Frank asked.

“The money Gilbert st-” she began, but caught herself. “You don’t know about the money?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I thought you said you’re from the police.”

“I am,” Frank said, his mind racing for a way to ease her suspicions and keep her talking at the same time, “but Mr. Smythe didn’t give me any details.”

She took a step backward. “Why did you want to see Gilbert, then?”

“I told you, I need to ask him some questions.”

“About what?”

“It’s a private matter,” Frank repeated.

She wasn’t going to tell him a thing, he knew. She was probably going to order him out, too, but the sound of a door closing in the back of the house distracted her.

“Mother, where are you?” a male voice called.

She turned to Frank, nearly desperate now. “Get out of here,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Go before he sees you.”

But it was too late. A tall young man came into the hallway from the door behind the stairs, and he stopped when he saw Frank. “Who are you?” he asked with a frown.

His clothes were shabby and dirty, and he wore sturdy work boots. Giddings the Lawyer’s son was doing manual labor. Giddings had been fired from his job, his family had sold everything of value that they owned to pay Smythe a debt, and his young son was struggling to help. This was not a happy home.

“He’s no one,” Mrs. Giddings replied for Frank. “He was just leaving.”

“If you’re a bill collector, you can talk to me,” the boy said, striding belligerently up to Frank. He was still gangly with youth, probably no more than sixteen, but in spite of his ragged appearance, he had a dignity about him. He was like his mother in that. Determined to protect her, he lifted his hairless chin and glared at Frank. “You don’t have any right to come here. We’ve told you we’ll pay you as soon as we’ve sold the house.”

“I’m not a bill collector,” Frank said. He couldn’t help admiring the way the boy had assumed his manhood and all the responsibilities that went with it.

“Who are you, then?” he asked, looking him up and down with contempt.

“Harold, don’t get involved in this,” his mother begged. “Go to your room. I’ll take care of it.”

“You’ve taken care of enough,” Harold said stubbornly. “What do you want?” he asked Frank again.

“I came to see your father. If you’ll just tell me where to find him-”

“He’s probably at some bar,” the boy said, his lip curling with distaste. “He’ll be there until they throw him out and he doesn’t have any choice but to come home. But at least he won’t be with that woman anymore,” he said to his mother, laying a comforting arm across her shoulders. “I can promise you that.”

“What woman are you talking about?” Frank asked, wondering how the boy knew Anna Blake would no longer be receiving visitors.

“Stop it, Harold,” Mrs. Giddings said, this time in a tone that brooked no argument. “This man is from the police. Mr. Smythe sent him.”

“The police,” the boy echoed in alarm, all his bravado evaporating. “What do you want with my father?”

“What do you think he wants?” his mother asked, no longer bothering to hide her bitterness. “Smythe wasn’t satisfied with getting the money back. Now he’s going to put your father in prison.” A lesser woman would have broken under this weight, but Mrs. Giddings hung on to her composure with the last vestiges of her strength, determined not to humiliate herself in front of a stranger.

“I’m not going to arrest him,” Frank tried in an attempt to ease her anguish, but the boy wasn’t listening.

“It’s that woman,” Harold said, his voice shrill with rage. “She did this. She made him steal that money, and now he’s going to shame us by going to prison. I’m going to kill him!” he cried and would have made for the front door if Frank hadn’t grabbed him.

He put up a struggle, but he was no match for Frank’s superior size and strength, and his mother’s pleas. By the time Frank had subdued him, he was sobbing with fury and shame.

“Where can I take him?” he asked Mrs. Giddings, as he held the boy up on his feet. She led them down the hallway to the back parlor.

This room had also been scavenged for salable items, but a few pieces of furniture remained, among them a well-worn sofa. Frank sat the boy down on it. He slumped over, head in his hands, still weeping.

His mother sat down beside him, holding him to her and offering what comfort she could.

“Your husband stole money from his employer to pay off his mistress,” Frank said. He wasn’t asking a question.

Mrs. Giddings looked up from consoling her son, her eyes dark with hatred. “You already knew that.”

Frank wasn’t going to contradict her. Besides, he now knew that Giddings had stolen money to pay off Anna Blake and ruined himself and his family in the process, which meant Giddings had more reason to want Anna Blake dead than Nelson Ellsworth did.

“How long did your husband know this young woman?” Frank asked.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Giddings said, patting her son’s back as he continued to weep out his grief on her shoulder. “Don’t you have any decency? And what does any of this matter? Leave us alone!”