"Why?"
"Well, I thought it would be a good test for the police. Let them discover it for themselves."
"That's a pretty weak explanation," remarked John Quincy severely. "You've been responsible for a lot of wasted time."
"It—it wasn't my only reason," said Miss Minerva softly.
"Oh—I'm glad to hear that. Go on."
"Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to link up that call of Captain Cope's with—a murder mystery."
Another silence. And suddenly—he was never dense—John Quincy understood.
"He told me you were very beautiful in the 'eighties," said the boy gently. "The captain, I mean. When I met him in that San Francisco club."
Miss Minerva laid her own hand on the boy's. When she spoke her voice, which he had always thought firm and sharp, trembled a little. "On this beach in my girl-hood," she said, "happiness was within my grasp. I had only to reach out and take it. But somehow—Boston—Boston held me back. I let my happiness slip away."
"Not too late yet," suggested John Quincy.