Mr. Penfield would have liked to refuse. But there was no pretext for such refusal. He therefore made a virtue of necessity and replied graciously:
“Certainly, certainly. By all means. I will just take a copy and then you can do as you please with the original, short of destroying it. But don’t, pray don’t let it lead you astray.”
“In what respect?”
“Well,” said Penfield, taking a deprecating pinch of snuff, “it has sometimes seemed to me that the specialist has a tendency—just a tendency, mark you—to mislead himself. He looks for a certain thing, which might be there, and—well, he finds it. I cannot but remark your own unexpected successes in your search for the—ha—the unusual, shall we say. On two occasions I have shown you an envelope. On both occasions you have made most surprising discoveries, involving the strangest aberrations of conduct on the part of Purcell and others. To-day you have found unheard-of anomalies in the post-marks, from which you infer that Purcell or another has exerted immense ingenuity and overcome insuperable obstacles in order to behave like a fool. On the previous occasion you discovered that Purcell had been at the trouble of ungumming the envelope which he had undoubtedly addressed with his own hand, for the express purpose of taking out the right contents which were already in it, and putting in the wrong ones. Perhaps you have made some other discoveries which you did not mention,” Mr. Penfield added after a slight pause, and as Thorndyke only bowed slightly—which was not very explicit—he further added: “Would it be indiscreet or impertinent to enquire whether you did, in fact, make any further discoveries? Whether, for instance, you arrived at any opinion as to the nature of the enclosures, which were, I think, the objects of your investigations?”
Thorndyke hesitated. For a moment he was disposed to take the old solicitor into his confidence. But experience had taught him, as it teaches most of us, that when the making or withholding of confidences are alternatives, he chooses the better part who keeps his own counsel. Nevertheless he gave Penfield a cautionary hint.
“Those enclosures,” said he, “have ceased to interest me. Any opinions that I formed as to their nature had be better left unstated. I seek no verification of them. Opinions held but not disclosed commit the holder to nothing; whereas actual knowledge has its responsibilities. I do not know what those enclosures were and I do not want to know.”
For some moments after Thorndyke finished speaking there was a slightly uncomfortable silence. Mr. Penfield’s dry facetiousness evaporated rather suddenly, and he found himself reading a somewhat alarming significance into Thorndyke’s ambiguous and even cryptic reply. ‘He did not know and he did not want to know.’ Now Mr. Penfield did know and would have given a good deal to be without that knowledge; for to possess the knowledge was to be an accessory. Was that what Thorndyke meant? Mr. Penfield had a dark suspicion that it was.
“Probably you are right,” he said presently. “You know what opinions you formed and I do not. But there is one point that I should like to have made clear. We are both acting in Mrs. Purcell’s interest, but her husband is also my client. Is there any conflict in our purposes with regard to him?”
“I think not,” replied Thorndyke. “At any rate, I will say this much: that I should under no circumstances take any action that might be prejudicial to him without your concurrence, or at least, without placing you in possession of all the facts. But I feel confident that no such necessity will arise. We are dealing with separate aspects of the case, but it would be foolish for us to get at cross purposes.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Penfield. “That is my own feeling. And with regard to this letter; if it should yield any further suggestions and you should consider them as being of any interest to me, perhaps you would be so good as to inform me of them.”