"Miss Dare, were these letters written by you?"
She looked at the packet he held toward her, started as she saw the broad black ribbon that encircled it, and bowed her head.
"I have no doubt these are my letters," she rejoined, a little tremulously for her. And unbinding the packet, she examined its contents. "Yes," she answered, "they are. These letters were all written by me."
And she handed them back with such haste that the ribbon which bound them remained in her fingers, where consciously or unconsciously she held it clutched all through the remaining time of her examination.
"Now," said the District Attorney, "I propose to read two of these letters. Does my friend wish to look at them before I offer them in evidence?" holding them out to Mr. Orcutt.
Every eye in the court-room was fixed upon the latter's face, as the letters addressed to his rival by the woman he wished to make his wife, were tendered in this public manner to his inspection. Even the iron face of Mansell relaxed into an expression of commiseration as he turned and surveyed the man who, in despite of the anomalous position they held toward each other, was thus engaged in battling for his life before the eyes of the whole world. At that instant there was not a spectator who did not feel that Tremont Orcutt was the hero of the moment.
He slowly turned to the prisoner:
"Have you any objection to these letters being read?"
"No," returned the other, in a low tone.
Mr. Orcutt turned firmly to the District Attorney: