She made a rapid comparison and folded the letter with a gesture of assent.
"It may have been written by an enemy," I went on, wishing to clear myself of any appearance of malice.
She shook her head. "He was barely fifteen—and his father was on the side of the government. Besides, this would have served him with the government, and the liberals would never have known of it."
This was unanswerable—and still not a word of revolt against the man whose condemnation she was pronouncing!
"Then—" I said with a vague gesture.
She caught me up. "Then—?"
"You have answered my objections," I returned.
"Your objections?"
"To thinking that Signor Briga could have begun his career as a patriot by betraying a friend."
I had brought her to the test at last, but my eyes shrank from her face as I spoke. There was a dead silence, which I broke by adding lamely: "But no doubt Signor Briga could explain."