“Or me,” said Helen.
“No, Miss Stanley, no, that at all events cannot be,” said the general. “Supposing the letters to be acknowledged by you, still it would be quite a different affair. But in the first place look at them, they may be forgeries. You will tell me if they are forgeries?”
And he placed the packet in her hands. Scarcely looking at the writing, she answered, “No, forgeries I am sure they are not.” The general looked again at the direction of the cover, and observed, “This is a feigned hand. Whose can it be?”
Helen was on the brink of saying that Cecilia had told her it was like the writing of Carlos. Now this cover had not, to the general’s knowledge, been seen by Cecilia, and that one answer might have betrayed all that she was to conceal, for he would instantly have asked how and when did Cecilia see it, and the cause of her fainting would have been then understood by him. Such hazards in every, even the first, least, step in falsehood; such hazard in this first moment! But she escaped this peril, and Helen answered: “It is something like the writing of the page Carlos, but I do not think all that direction is his. There seem to be two different hands. I do not know, indeed, how it is?”
“Some time or other it will come out,” said the general.
“I will keep this cover, it will lead to the direction of that boy, or of whoever it was that employed him.”
To give her further time the general went on looking at the miniature, which he held in his hand. “This is a beautiful likeness,” said he, “and not ill painted—by Cecilia, was not it?”
Helen looked at it, and answered, “Yes, by Cecilia.”
“I am glad it is safe,” said the general, “restored—Cecilia told me the history. I know that it was stolen, not given by you.”
“Given!” said Helen. “Oh no! stolen.”