Mordaunt took one or two turns through the room. "Do you think one of those fellows can have written this letter?"
"How can I tell? I should think it not unlikely. I imagine from what you say it must be written by some one whose object it is to detach you from your friends. And certainly nothing that any of those men did would surprise me."
By an odd coincidence that same evening, as Mrs. Frampton sat in close confab with Mr. Planter, while the young people, under Mrs. Planter's chaperonage, were gone to the theatre, the American drew from his pocket two letters, and said, rather suddenly,
"Do you know a New-Yorker named John Reid?"
"Yes; a very nice man. I knew him in Boston, where his mother lives."
"Is he a great friend of Sir Mordaunt's?"
"I think he may be called so. They have not known each other very long, but Mr. Reid was very kind to my nephew in New York, and useful in giving him advice."
"They had no quarrel? You have no reason to suppose he would abuse your nephew?"
"Abuse Mordaunt? Good gracious! No. Why should he?"
"I don't know; only I have had a letter sent me purporting to come from him, and forwarded by an anonymous correspondent. In that letter he says some very hard things of Sir Mordaunt. I like all that is open and fair, Mrs. Frampton. I don't much care about anonymous letters. But I get a lot of them, all the time."