“Can’t find no mo’ ol’ shoes so must go and tear up the coat that Marse Archie sot so much store by,” said Chloe, as she captured both coat and the terrier as he was again scampering into the library. “I done heerd that scampering and knowed that tarrier was up to sumpin’, and he’s done tore out the linin’ of that good coat and the cover off a letter.”
“Did he get the letters out of the coat?” asked Mr. Courtney, as Hilda picked them from the floor.
“I ’spect so, sir. There weren’t no letters on the piazzy ’till the tarrier done tore the coat.”
“This one is signed ‘Janette Ashley’,” said Hilda, becoming very pale, “and is addressed to ‘My Dear Sister Sarah.’ I remember that Aunt Ashley’s first name was Janette,” she added, turning to Mrs. Merryman and putting the letter in her hand.
“It was, Hilda, and her sister’s name was Sarah Warfield. Shall I read it aloud?”
The girl nodded; she could not trust her voice to speak.
“These must be the letters of which Diana Strong spoke the evening of my reception,” remarked Mrs. Merryman when she finished reading. “The dates prove that they were written the week of Mrs. Ashley’s death.”
“My husband wrote this one,” said Mrs. Courtney, to whom Mrs. Merryman had passed the letters. “I recognize the writing; besides, I remember hearing him say at the time that he had written a letter for Mrs. Ashley to her sister in Ohio. He wrote it at the cottage and I remember his saying that Mrs. Ashley asked Diana to give him her pen from the writing desk. He said it was the handsomest he had ever seen, a gold pen, the handle also gold, and set with lines of rubies. He commented upon the beauty of it, and Mrs. Ashley said her father gave it to her upon her fifteenth birthday, and she had never used any other since.”
“But where have the letters been all this time?” said Mrs. Merryman.
“Without doubt in the pocket of the coat of which the terrier has torn the lining,” said Mr. Courtney, whose handsome face had grown pale and sad since the reading of the letters.