“God seeing me! Yes, Jan-an.”
“Yer ain’t hanging around her to do her––dirt?”
“Good Lord, no!” Northrup recoiled. Apparently new anxiety was overcoming the girl.
Then, by a sudden dash, Jan-an swept the untidy mass of papers over to him; she abdicated her last stronghold.
“What’s them?” she demanded huskily. Northrup brought the smelly kerosene lamp nearer and as he read he was conscious of Jan-an’s mutterings.
“Stealing her letters––what is letters, anyway? And I’ve counted and watched––he’s took one to her to-night. Just one. One he has made. Writing day in and out––tearing up writing––sneaking and lying. God! And new letters looking like old ones, till I’m fair crazy.”
For a few moments Northrup lost the sound of Jan-an’s guttural whimpers, then he caught the words:
“And her crying and wanting the letters. Just letters!” Northrup again became absorbed.
He placed certain old sheets on one side of the table; newer sheets on the other; some half sheets in the middle. It was like an intricate puzzle, and the same one that Maclin had recently tackled.
That he was meddling with another’s property and reading another’s letters did not seem to occur to Northrup. He was held by a determined force that was driving him on and an intense interest that justified any means at his disposal.