we may find Emilio’s letter.’ At heart she was always sure that he had written—I suppose some blessed instinct told her so.” She dropped her face on her hands, and I saw her tears fall on the wretched letter.
In a moment she looked up again, with eyes that blessed and trusted me. “Tell me where you found it,” she said.
I told her.
“Oh, the savages! him—”
My opportunity had come. “No,” I said, “it appears they did not take it from him.”
“Then how—”
I waited a moment. “The letter,” I said, looking full at her, “was given up to the warder of the prison by the son of Doctor Briga.”
She stared, repeating the words slowly. “The son of Doctor Briga? But that is—Fernando,” she said.
“I have always understood,” I replied, “that your friend was an only son.”
I had expected an outery of horror; if she had uttered it I could have forgiven her anything. But I heard, instead, an incredulous exclamation: my statement was really too preposterous! I saw that her mind had flashed back to our last talk, and that she charged me with something too nearly true to be endurable.
“My brother’s letter? Given to the prison warder by Fernando Briga? My dear Captain Alingdon—on what authority do you expect me to believe such a tale?”
Her incredulity had in it an evident implication of bad faith, and I was stung to a quick reply.
“If you will turn over the letter you will see.”
She continued to gaze at me a moment; then she obeyed. I don’t think I ever admired her more than I did then. As she read the name a tremor crossed her face; and that was all. Her mind must have reached out instantly to the farthest consequences of the discovery, but the long habit of self command enabled her to steady her muscles at once. If I had not been on the alert I should have seen no hint of emotion.
For a while she looked fixedly at the back of the letter; then she raised her eyes to mine.
“Can you tell me who wrote this?” she asked.
Her composure irritated me. She had rallied all her forces to Briga’s defence, and I felt as though my triumph were slipping from me.
“Probably one of the clerks of the archives,” I answered. “It is written in the same hand as all the other memoranda relating to the political prisoners of that year.”
“But it is a lie!” she exclaimed. “He was never admitted to the prisons.”
“Are you sure?”
“How should he have been?”
“He might have gone as his father’s assistant.”
“But if he had seen my poor brother he would have told me long ago.”
“Not if he had really given up this letter,” I retorted.
I supposed her quick intelligence had seized this from the first; but I saw now that it came to her as a shock. She stood motionless, clenching the letter in her hands, and I could guess the rapid travel of her thoughts.
Suddenly she came up to me. “Captain Alingdon,” she said, “you have been a good friend of mine, though I think you have not liked me lately. But whether you like me or not, I know you will not deceive me. On your honor, do you think this memorandum may have been written later than the letter?”
I hesitated. If she had cried out once against Briga I should have wished myself out of the business; but she was too sure of him.
“On my honor,” I said, “I think it hardly possible. The ink has faded to the same degree.”
She made a rapid comparison and folded the letter with a gesture of assent.
“It may have been written by an en enemy,” I went on, wishing to clear myself of any appearance of malice.
She shook her head. “He was barely fifteen—and his father was on the side of the government. Besides, this would have served him with the government, and the liberals would never have known of it.”
This was unanswerable—and still not a word of revolt against the man whose condemnation she was pronouncing!
“Then—” I said with a vague gesture.
Vol. CVIII—No. 647—98
