“It is a love letter,” I said.
“Don’t blush over such a confession,” he said. “If it is true, be proud of it. Love is a wonderful thing. Never be ashamed of being in love, my child.”
“I am not in love,” I cried with bitter furey.
“Ah! Then it is not your letter!”
“I wrote it.”
“But to simulate a passion that does not exist—that is sackrilege. It is——”
“Oh, stop talking,” I cried, in a hunted tone. “I can’t bear it. If you are going to arrest me, get it over.”
“I’d rather not arrest you, if we can find a way out. You look so young, so new to Crime! Even your excuse for being here is so naïve, that I—won’t you tell me why you wrote a love letter, if you are not in love? And whom you sent it to? That’s important, you see, as it bears on the case. I intend,” he said, “to be judgdicial, unimpassioned, and quite fair.”
“I wrote a love letter,” I explained, feeling rather cheered, “but it was not intended for any one. Do you see? It was just a love letter.”
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. It is often done. And after that?”