“Oh, it was letters; she sent them away.”
“To whom were these letters directed?”
“That I don’t know; she always managed to get them off secretly.”
“And this is all you know of her?”
“Pretty much.”
“But I have no certainty; this book may have been stolen. I cannot be sure that the poor girl is the one I am interested in,” said Mrs. Judson, seized by a very natural doubt.
“Yes, you can,” answered Jane, bluntly. “You asked about letters. That poor girl left one letter which will tell you something about her. There it is in her own handwriting, if you know that,—look and see.”
Mrs. Judson took the letter from Kelly’s hand; the address seemed to strike her with astonishment, and her hands shook as she unfolded it. The letter was a long one, but she read it twice, and seemed to ponder over it after every word had been gathered. Jane sat still reading the lady’s face, which for a time came out of its cold composure and was disturbed.
“Do you know the writing, madam?”
Mrs. Judson looked up and answered the question, abrupt as it was. “Yes, it is her writing. You will leave the letter with me.”