"Some one brought me a letter, Amy. They said it was a letter of yours."
She did not move nor stir. Then, after a long silence, she said, "Let me see it."
He felt in his pocket and produced it. She stretched out her hand and took it. She read it through slowly. "You think that I wrote this?" she asked.
"No, I know that you did not."
"To whom was it supposed to be written?"
"To 'Morris of St. James'."
She nodded her head. "Ah, yes. We're friends. That's why they chose him. Of course it's a forgery," she added--"a very clever one."
"What I don't understand," he said eagerly, at his heart the strangest relief that he did not dare to stop to analyse, "is why any one should have troubled to do this--the risk, the danger----"
"You have enemies," she said. "Of course you know that. People who are jealous."
"One enemy," he answered fiercely. "Ronder. The woman had been to him with this letter before she came to me."