"I was not thinking of you. The day I do not believe in you I shall not believe in God. You are the last thing I have left to believe in—and the best, my dear friend."
He was very much in earnest, as Laura knew from the tone of his voice. But she would not look at him just then, because she felt that he was looking at her, and she preferred that their eyes should not meet.
"Will you do anything about this?" she asked, after a pause, and not referring to what he had last said. "Will you destroy those vile things?"
"Since they are addressed to me, I suppose I have a right to do so," answered Ghisleri, and he began slowly to tear up the sheets of the first letter.
"There can be no doubt about their being genuine?" asked Laura, with sudden emotion.
"Not at all, I should say. But you are the best judge of that. You should know her handwriting better than I. If you like," he added, with a short laugh, "I will go and show them to her and ask her if she wrote them. Shall I?"
"Oh, no! Do not do that!" exclaimed Laura, who knew that he was quite capable of following such a course as he suggested.
There was apparently nothing to be done. Laura believed that any attempt to make use of the two remaining letters would be as abortive as the first, and there could certainly be no use in keeping those which had been sent. On the contrary, it was possible that if they were preserved, chance might throw them into hands in which they might become far more dangerous than they were.
"Shall I write to Maria B., whoever she is?" asked Laura.
"You might send her another five francs," answered Ghisleri, grimly. "It would show her how much you value the documents she has for sale."