"You make nothing of it, then?"
"P'st!"
"I—I was hoping so." The Master's voice was tremulous, apologetic. "It came by this evening's post, not half an hour ago.… I am not used to receive such things: yet I know what ought to be done with them—toss them into the fire at once and dismiss them from your mind. I make no doubt I should have burnt it within another ten minutes: as for cleansing one's mind of it so quickly, that must be a counsel of perfection. But you were shown in, and I—I made certain that you could contradict this disgraceful report and set my mind at rest. Forgive me."
"Ah, Master"—Brother Copas glanced up with a quick smile— "it almost looks as if you were right after all, and one is never too old to confess!" He bent and held the edge of the paper close to the blaze. "May I burn it?"
"By all means."
"Nay, then, I won't. But since you have freely parted with it, may I keep it?… I have had some little experience with manuscripts, and it is just possible I may trace this to the writer—who is assuredly a woman," added Brother Copas, studying the letter again. "You have my leave to do so." "And you ask no further question?"
The Master hesitated. At length he said firmly—
"None. I have no right. How can so foul a thing confer any right?"
Brother Copas was silent for a space.
"Nay, that is true, Master; it cannot.… Nevertheless, I will answer what was in your mind to ask. When I came into the room you were pondering this letter. The thought of it—pah!—mixed itself up with a thought of the appointment you had set for me—with the Petition; and the two harked back together upon a question you put to me just now. 'Why was not Brother Bonaday among the signatories?' Between them they turned that question into a suspicion. Guilty men are seldom bold: as the Scots say, 'Riven breeks sit still.'… Was not this, or something like it, in your mind, sir?"