"I can see now that it did. None of them have ever appeared quite the same as before."
"Mr. Harwell," I gravely continued; "when you were questioned as to the receipt of any letter by Mr. Leavenworth, which might seem in any manner to be connected with this tragedy, you denied having seen any such; how was that?"
"Mr. Raymond, you are a gentleman; have a chivalrous regard for the ladies; do you think you could have brought yourself (even if in your secret heart you considered some such result possible, which I am not ready to say I did) to mention, at such a time as that, the receipt of a letter complaining of the treatment received from one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, as a suspicious circumstance worthy to be taken into account by a coroner’s jury?"
I shook my head. I could not but acknowledge the impossibility.
"What reason had I for thinking that letter was one of importance? I knew of no Henry Ritchie Clavering."
"And yet you seemed to think it was. I remember you hesitated before replying."
"It is true; but not as I should hesitate now, if the question were put to me again."
Silence followed these words, during which I took two or three turns up and down the room.
"This is all very fanciful," I remarked, laughing in the vain endeavor to throw off the superstitious horror his words had awakened.
He bent his head in assent. "I know it," said he. "I am practical myself in broad daylight, and recognize the flimsiness of an accusation based upon a poor, hardworking secretary’s dream, as plainly as you do. This is the reason I desired to keep from speaking at all;
