"H'm," said Beale, biting his lips thoughtfully, "she evidently gave the man the telegram, telling him to dispatch it. She probably gave him money, too, which was the explanation of his final drunk."
"I don't think that is the case," said McNorton, "he had one lucid moment at the station when he was cross-examined as to where he got the money to get drunk, and he affirmed that he found it wrapped up in a piece of paper. That sounds true to me. She either dropped it from a car or threw it from a house."
"Is the man very ill?"
"Pretty bad," said the other, "you will get nothing out of him before the morning. The doctors had to dope him to get him quiet, and he will be some time before he is right."
He looked up at the other occupant of the room.
"Well, Parson, you are helping Mr. Beale, I understand?"
"Yes," said the other easily.
"Returning to your old profession, I see," said McNorton.
Parson Homo drew himself up a little stiffly.