Miriam was unfolding and examining them; but all in a cold, stony, unnatural way.
"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"
"Yes; why?"
"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"
"Yes; why?"
"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"
"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"
"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked
Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."
With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized forehead. Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy and his frozen lips muttered:
"In a fit of frantic passion, anger, jealousy—even he might have been maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"