“And what?” said Hamilton, quietly.
“Nothing,” replied Louis; “I don't believe you knew, only it was rather strange, Hamilton.”
“What was strange?” said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.
“Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your things, and I thought you had it, perhaps,” said Louis, reluctantly. “If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't have thought of playing the trick.”
“You little—” exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel epithet strong enough, he continued, “When Hamilton had just taken the trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see it all now, Hamilton—you ungrateful boy!”
“How should I know? he never said so,” replied Louis, touched to the heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his anger. “How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or if I don't see them?”
“And so you did it out of revenge?” said Hamilton.
Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last he replied, in a quivering voice—
“No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter, and—and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish. I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember what I did with it.”
“Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis,” said Hamilton, “when I was inquiring for it? It would have been more open.”