"Letters!" exclaimed Armstrong. "What letters?"
"These," answered Enid Maitland, holding up the packet.
Armstrong reached for them but Kirkby again interposed.
"No, you don't," he said dryly. "Them ain't for your eyes yit. Mr. Newbold, I found them letters on the little shelf w'ere your wife first struck w'en she fell over onto the butte w'ere she died. I figgered out her dress was tore open there an' them letters she was carryin' fell out an' lodged there. We had ropes an' we went down over the rocks that way. I went first an' I picked 'em up. I never told nobody about it an' I never showed 'em to a single human bein' until I give 'em to Miss Maitland at the camp."
"Why not?" asked Newbold, taking the letters.
"There wasn't no good tellin' nobody then, jest fer the sake o' stirrin' up trouble."
"But why did you give them to her at last?"
"Because I was afeered she might fall in love with Armstrong. I supposed she'd know his writin', but w'en she didn't I jest let her keep 'em anyway. I knowed it'd all come out somehow; there is a God above us in spite of all the damned scoundrels on earth like this un."
"Are these letters addressed to my dead wife?" asked Newbold.
"They are," answered Enid Maitland; "look and see."