“And why do you come to tell me?”
“For the reason that I cannot allow you to be unjust, madam.”
“What on earth was your motive?”
Evan stood silent, flinching from her frank eyes.
“Well, well, well!” Her ladyship dropped into a chair, and thumped her knees.
There was lawyer’s blood in Lady Jocelyn’s veins: she had the judicial mind. A confession was to her a confession. She tracked actions up to a motive; but one who came voluntarily to confess needed no sifting. She had the habit of treating things spoken as facts.
“You absolutely wrote that letter to Mrs. Evremonde’s husband!”
Evan bowed, to avoid hearing his own lie.
“You discovered his address and wrote to him, and imitated Mr. Laxley’s handwriting, to effect the purpose you may have had?”
Her credulity did require his confirmation of it, and he repeated: “It is my deed.”