“I see—”
“I’d always trusted Cordelia—I hadn’t ever thought as she could do anything like that—not my wife!”
“One doesn’t usually expect it of one’s—own wife.” Eldridge laughed a little, but it was not unkindly, and the man seemed to draw toward him.
“I’ve never mentioned it—except to that detective, and I didn’t tell him—any more than I had to—He didn’t seem to need much telling—” he said dryly. “He seemed to sense just about what had been going on—without telling.”
“Yes—?” Eldridge was looking thoughtfully into the greyish-black beard with the round lump in it.
“He’s got the facts. It took him just two weeks—to get ’em.” His hand motioned toward the letters, but there was something in the face—a kind of puffy appeal.
Eldridge nodded. “They know what to do,” he said quietly.
“I hadn’t even mistrusted,” said the man. His eyes were looking at something that Eldridge could not see—something that seemed to come from a faint perfume in the room.... “I can see it plain enough now—looking back.... You don’t mind my telling you—a little—about it.” Eldridge shook his head. The man seemed a kind of lumbering boy, yet he was a shrewd, keen man in business.
“It might help—you know—” he said. “I thought you’d ask me, probably—I’d kind of planned to tell you, I guess.” He laughed a little awkwardly.
“Go ahead,” said Eldridge.