“That I had died.”
“Why, that friend of yours with whom you were staying—Bunn—Munn—which was it, Johnny?—wrote to tell your husband so.”
Mrs. Nash Caromel, sitting there in the twilight, her brown hair as smooth as ever and her eyes as meek, looked at the Squire in surprise.
“Oh no, that could not have been; Mr. Munn would not be likely to write anything of the sort. Impossible.”
“But, my dear lady, I read the letter. Your husband brought it to me as soon as it reached him. You remained at San Francisco, very ill after Nash’s departure, and you got no better, and died at last of low fever.”
She shook her head. “I was very poorly indeed when Nash left, but I grew better shortly. I had no low fever, and I certainly did not die.”
“Then why did Munn write it?”
“He did not write it. He could not have written it. I am quite certain of that. He and his wife are my very good and dear friends, and most estimable people.”
“The letter certainly came to your husband,” persisted the Squire. “I read it with my own eyes. It was dated San Francisco, and signed Francis Munn.”
“Then it was a forgery. But why any one should have written it, or troubled themselves about me and my husband at all, I cannot imagine.”