"I believe, Mr. Withers, that this letter is for you."
He seemed at first reluctant to take it, as if fearful that it contained something which might disturb his peace of mind. He eyed it doubtfully; read the address; perceived that the envelope had been opened. A disagreeable look came upon his handsome countenance; he turned on me with a snarl.
"Who are you? What do you mean by treating me as you have done? And how dare you open a letter that's addressed to me?"
"First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards."
He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as well.
"You stole it; you must have stolen it! I've half a mind to give you in charge; you don't know what mischief you mayn't have done."
"Is the person alluded to as 'that scoundrel' in the letter which you are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?"
"What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs? What business is it of yours?"
"Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead."
"Dead!"
