“I know nothing of any papers in which you could possibly be concerned,” she replied coldly. “Tell me your story more clearly.”
Lettice tried to do so, ending with, “If you have not been concerned in the matter, he must have done it entirely of his own accord.”
“Do you suppose that either of us would so degrade ourselves as to stoop to theft?” returned Rhoda, frigidly.
“I don’t know; I can’t tell. I am so distracted that I hardly know what I do think. I know you are not friendly to our cause, and that in war it is not thought wrong to avail one’s self of all sorts of methods to carry out an intention. Oh, Rhoda! if I do not recover the papers, they will make me tell whom I suspect, and he will be arrested and perhaps shot for a spy.”
“Sh! sh! Aunt Martha may hear.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone to bed with a sick headache. It was warm, and I did not care to go so early.”
“What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“Do you care so much for Robert Clinton’s safety?”
“I care! Of course I do. I don’t know whether much or little. One would rather one’s friends should be safe. I denounced him to his face for a spy, and if it is true that he is one, I despise him, but I do not want him taken and hung. Oh, Rhoda, will you warn him? And, oh, those papers! What can I do? I don’t know which way to turn.”