As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was examining the writing.
“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character in handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed.”
“Is it very small? Are the letters minute?—for that, they allege, is one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read it.”
“No,” said Quackinboss; “that's what they call a bold, free hand; the writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count consequences.”
“Let me interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What's this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to it. You shall see if I cannot.”' And, without another word, he arose, and rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his hand. “Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in the same writing?” They were several short notes,—invitations or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris. “What do you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand or not?” cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.
“'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.”
“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion.
“These were written by the same person, that's clear enough,” said the doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of?”