"She has done this thing, therefore, with the deliberate intention of ruining me in your eyes," said Ghisleri.
"And she has utterly failed to do so, or even to change my opinion of you a little. But it is very well done. There are people who would have been deceived. The idea of forging—it is not forging—of writing imaginary letters to you herself is masterly."
"I do not think she is quite sane. The morphia she takes is beginning to affect her brain. She does not always know what she is doing."
"You take far too merciful and charitable a view," answered Laura, with some scorn.
"No, on the contrary, if she were quite what she used to be, she would be more dangerous—she would not make mistakes. Two or three years ago she would not have gratuitously thrown herself into danger as she has now. She would not have made such a failure as this."
"And what a failure it is! Do you know? It was very puzzling at first. To know positively that you never could have received those letters, and yet to see that they are still in existence, addressed to you, and opened in your peculiar way. I felt as though I were in a dream."
"I wonder you did not feel inclined to believe me guilty. The evidence was almost as strong as it could be. In your position I should have hesitated."
"Would you have believed such a thing of me, if it had been just as it is, only if the letters had gone to you instead of to me?" asked Laura.
"Certainly not!" exclaimed Ghisleri, with strong emphasis. "That would be quite another matter."
"I do not see that it would. You would have been exactly in my position, as you hinted a moment ago."