He was just … well, shy. There was a sort of barrier you had to break down.”

“Ah, a barrier. And you broke it down?”

“Perhaps partly.”

“So that you became his only real friend?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that either…. The fact was, he worked so hard he hadn’t much time for personal contacts of any kind.”

“Where was he living?”

“In furnished rooms.”

“Did you ever visit him there?”

“Once—but only for a few minutes.”

“Would you say—from that one visit—that his style of life fitted with the job he had?”

“Oh sure. He didn’t earn much money and everything about him looked like it.”

“Where were you living then?”

“With my parents. They had a house in Hampstead. They usually went over for the summer.”

“Were Bradley’s rooms also in Hampstead?”

“No. In Belsize Park. Or Chalk Farm. Just a few miles away.”

“What do you mean—Belsize Park or Chalk Farm? Don’t you know which?”

“Belsize Park if you wanted a good address, Chalk Farm if you didn’t care. He didn’t care.”

He looked puzzled, but he made a note of Belsize Park or Chalk Farm. “Now on these occasions when you met him, Miss Waring, what did you usually talk about?”

“Everyday things. Sometimes my work.”

“Did you ever discuss his work?”

“I couldn’t have—it was far out of my range. I was taking history. His stuff was mathematics, physics, and that sort of thing.”

“So he could discuss history although it wasn’t his subject?”

“Anybody can discuss history whether it’s their subject or not. But try talking about mathematics with an expert when you’ve never got beyond quadratic equations.”

“All right…. Did you ever discuss America?”

“Sometimes he spoke of his boyhood on a farm. Dakota, I think. Early struggles … all that.”

“Politics?”

“Not much. Just news in the paper. The Wally Simpson business, if you call that politics. We didn’t agree about it—I was against the marriage, he was all for it.”

“Did he like living in London?”

“I think so. Most Americans do.”

“You mean you did yourself?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did he ever say whether he preferred England or America … or perhaps some other country?”

“Goodness, no. It wasn’t what he preferred, it was where he could work. London University gave him a research fellowship.”

“And American universities wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they hadn’t any—of the kind he wanted.”

“So he might have had a grudge against them—or perhaps against American life in general?”

“A grudge? That man never had a grudge even when he ought to have had.”

As soon as I said it I regretted the emphasis; I knew it would lead to questions I wouldn’t answer at all. They came.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just that he wasn’t the type for harboring grudges. He lived for his work and nothing else mattered.”

“You don’t think he could ever be actuated by a motive to get even with somebody?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“You can’t recall any incident of such a kind?”

“No. Never.”

“In fact you never saw anything wrong with him at all, did you, Miss Waring?”

I caught a faint smile on his face and answered it with a big one of my own. “Of course I did—he was far too tied to his work for any girl to think him faultless.”

“So he didn’t take you out enough?”

I laughed. “No, not nearly enough.” I felt we were establishing the right mood and it would all be plain sailing if I stuck to it.

“Did he have other girl-friends?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about his love life. I never asked him questions about it.