"What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, the clergyman, to do with Madam Resimer, the murderess of unborn children?" continued Dermoyne; "and the patient,—who is the patient? Is it Alice? This letter is dated the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will cross the threshold of that hell, where the Madam rules, as the presiding Devil!"
A gleam of hope shot across Herman's soul. "He does not know, that Alice is already in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,—courage!"
"Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's eye gleamed with deadly light; still holding the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the clergyman.
"Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed Herman, sinking back in the chair: "that letter is a forgery."
Dermoyne was astonished.
"You never wrote it?"
"Never,—never!" Herman raised his hands to Heaven,—"it is the work of some mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman, would sign my own name to a letter addressed to Madam Resimer?"
Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of doubt clouded his features.
"A forgery?" he asked.
"An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst, resuming his dignity. "Now, that you have wrung my very soul, by an accusation so utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable, let me hope that you will—" he pointed to the door.