Fred. Hold, mad girl! Hard words; but, for the sake of the old man, I forgive you. If that portfolio contains proof of my guilt, it’s too late now: it’s at the bottom of the lake. Who can bring it thence? (Enter Bob, C.)
Bob. Just my luck! I knew that lake contained bouncing trout; but I never knew before that it produced any thing so nearly resembling a flounder. (Holds up portfolio.)
Dilly. It’s mine, mine, Bob.
Fred. Curse that fellow! He’s always in the way.
Dilly. Listen all. I charge that man Hastings with the perpetration of the forgery of which Harry Harlem was accused five years ago. The proof is here. On the blotting-leaves of this portfolio once owned and used by him are indelibly impressed the written lines of the check,—“Aug. 1, 1858. Seventy-five—Andrew Harlem,”—left there when he blotted the check. (Enter Mrs. Loring, R.)
Lucy. Gracious heavens!
Mrs. L. Is it possible?
Bob. By thunder!
Doctor. I don’t understand, Dilly; I don’t understand.