'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.'
'Hum! And you sent that premonitory slip of paper to her?'
'To Mrs. Evremonde?'
'Somebody else was the author of that, perhaps?'
'It is all on me.'