"That letter--"
"I did not write that letter." Clarice looked at him steadily. His face was calm, his nerves were unshaken. Either she had failed to take him unawares with her abrupt accusation, or the man was innocent. "If I have made a mistake I ask your pardon," she said, quietly, "but you have read the letter?"
"Just this moment. I never set eyes on it before."
"What do you think of the accusation?"
"I don't know what to think," said Jerce, coolly.
"Oh! Then you believe that the writer--if not yourself--has certain grounds upon which to accuse my brother of murder?"
"I don't know the writer and I don't know the grounds. Any other man would have lost his temper at the insult you have offered. But being in love with you, I forgive your unfair suspicions. Still, in justice to myself, I shall take my leave, as I cannot inflict upon you the company of a man of whom you think so meanly."
"One moment," said Clarice, who could not tell if he was really innocent, or if he was acting a part. "What would you do about the letter if you were me?"
"I should obey the writer," said Jerce, promptly.
"Ah! Then you have an interest in stopping my marriage?"