To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner. Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation.
“He as says all that,” Woodley continues, after stating the circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, “has guv me the letter dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I’ve tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter; though I guess you’ll all agree wi’ me, it’s clar enough a’ready.”
They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring that. One now cries out—
“What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy’s been killed—he’s been murdered. An’ Dick Darke’s the man that did it!”
It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling of curiosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter, which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents may have no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know what they are.
“You read it, Henry Spence! You’re a scholart, an’ I ain’t,” says Woodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look—the schoolmaster of the settlement.
Spence, stepping close up to the porch—into which some one has carried a candle—and holding the letter before the light, first reads the superscription, which, as he informs them, is in a lady’s handwriting.
“To Charley Clancy” it is.
“Charles Clancy!”
Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar tone—that of surprise. One interrogates,—