Catherine read the note, turned deadly pale, fell back in her chair, and let the paper drop from her hands—overwhelmed by the enormous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely restraining a bitter curse, he picked up the fatal note, pushed the door open with his foot, crossed the hall, and entered his bed-chamber, banging the door after him.
One stunned moment she sat thus, then started to her feet, bewildered, distracted, and with a wild impulse, fled across the hall and into his chamber, and sank at his feet speechless, mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed, simply—
“I did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that letter.”
He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned away, without reply.
She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again—
“I did not write that letter! It is impossible I ever should have conceived, much less have written such a letter! I do not know who wrote it. I never laid my eyes on it before!”
An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply.
“Oh! what shall I say to convince you? Indeed, indeed I did not do it!”
“Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.”
She was silent.