“It belongs to Mr. Dempsey,” said Dorothy, with chilling directness. “I shall tell Aunt Winnie you are here, sir.”
“Oh! don’t let me hurry her,” said the man.
His sharp eyes were fixed upon the letter as Dorothy turned away to go to her aunt’s room. When she returned a little later, Mr. Philo Marsh had settled himself in a chair on the veranda to await Mrs. White. John Dempsey beckoned her into the office and closed the door.
“Have a care of that fellow, Miss,” he whispered. “He’s a snake in the grass.”
“Why do you say so?” asked the girl.
“The rascal offered me fifty dollars for the letter from President Lincoln.”
“Oh, Mr. Dempsey! that is a lot of money.”
“Why, Miss Dale! if the letter was mine to sell, I wouldn’t part wi’ it for a fortune. Poor I may be,” said old John Dempsey, reverently, “but never poor enough to sell a scrap of writin’ in the hand of the greatest hearted and tenderest man this country ever seen—no, Ma’am!”