"Your memory is evidently good. And this might have suggested to you, at any rate, that she could have no affection for Beardsley. But I have been thinking that perhaps you are right; the clue of the note was not followed up as it ought to have been."
"You must have seen Beardsley. How did he convince you that he could throw no light on the whereabouts of the missing boy? What did he say was in the note?" Durgan turned upon his companion almost angrily, and saw the little gray-haired man walking steadily on with abstracted mien. But there was a peculiar aspect of attention about his shoulders, his neck; it seemed to alter the very shape of his ears. Durgan felt himself warned of some unseen pitfall. "You must consider my crude way of dealing with a problem to which you have brought your highly trained mind somewhat absurd," he said.
"By no means. I am only surprised at your able handling of the matter, and--ah--a little surprised, perhaps, at some omissions which seem to have occurred in my conduct of the case. May I ask you, Mr. Durgan, if you have had any corroboration of the idea that this note came from Beardsley, either from him or from your wife?"
"No. Certainly not. I only know what Miss Claxton said before the coroner."
"Miss Claxton never gave that evidence. Until you told me a moment ago I never heard the note came from Beardsley. I am shocked and surprised."
Durgan started. "Surely I am quoting the verbatim report."
"I can see, Mr. Durgan, that you believe Miss Claxton did say this; and as it was not given publicly, someone must have told you in private. I will not ask you again the source of your information, which I now suppose to have been Miss Bertha."
"But only in telling me what you would have withheld, and what, it would appear, those for whom I have done everything have long withheld--the one thing that it most behooved me to know." The lawyer stopped in his walk, and spoke, shaken with distress. "I will admit to you, Mr. Durgan, that for years I have been aware that my clients withheld something from me; I may say 'bitterly aware,' for, the trial being over, I could not with delicacy renew my questions. But I believed in their integrity, and have assured myself that their secret must be unimportant. You can estimate how acute is my present distress when I perceive that this concealment has covered what was the vital point, the clue to the murderer."