“Yes. I considered it my duty to examine all his papers.”
“How did you know they were from my wife?”
“By her initials, signed to them—by the handwriting.”
“And you have known this all these months, and said nothing?” Donald strode to the window and looked out. The North River, quivering in the hot sunlight, was a clutter of barges, tugs and ferry-boats, but his eyes, blurred with tears, saw nothing. Presently he turned. “Where are those letters now?” he asked.
“I do not know. I gave them to Mrs. Rogers. I advised her to destroy them. I presume she has done so.”
An angry light crept into Donald’s eyes. “You had no right—” he began hotly.
Mr. Brennan raised his hand. “You are in error, Mr. Rogers. I had every right. The letters belonged to your wife, by law. Mr. West left her everything he possessed.”
“What did she say to him?” He strode excitedly toward the desk. “Tell me, man. Can’t you see what it means to me?”
“They were the letters of a weak, foolish woman, Mr. Rogers—not a bad one—of that I am sure.”
“Not a bad one? You mean—?”