“Upon my word, I never knew anything like it. It is as if malicious imps had been told off to play into that—into Miss Forsyth’s hands. If she—if Miss Wentworth gets ill, and anything happens to her, I, for one, shall feel as if she had been murdered.”
Rex could bear no more.
“Robin,” he exclaimed, “do you want to send me out of my mind? In your—only natural, I allow”—and he threw a quick and searching glance at his brother—“feeling for her, you seem to think I have no feeling at all. Keep to the point. What motive had that woman in doing as she did? and how can she be shown up and punished?”
“Spite,” answered Robin. “Spite, at her, Imogen, or you; that is my answer to the first question. And—”
“She has no special motive for malevolence at me,” interrupted Rex, “and her jealousy of Imogen can scarcely be so deep-seated. Beatrix hates me, in her mad, reckless way, for getting her a scolding, as she would express it; but even she, wild as she is—”
“Would have hesitated to open two envelopes, read their contents, and fasten them up again, after changing the letters,” said Robin. “Well, yes, it is to be hoped so; at least, I can’t help hoping so, considering she’s our cousin.”
“And you are certain, entirely certain, that the letters were rightly put in at first?” repeated his brother.
“Absolutely, entirely certain that the one I shut into the envelope addressed to Miss Wentworth was for Miss Wentworth. Yes, as certain as that I’m sitting on this chair. And I am also absolutely certain that as I was crossing the outer hall to look if the dogcart had come, I saw Miss Forsyth come down-stairs and stop at the table where notes and letters for the post always lie, and stand there looking at the letters. There was no one about; everybody was late that morning except ourselves, and Florence, and that woman. But that is all I can vouch for, though Trixie’s terror made me surer than ever.”
“Do you think she knew?”
Robin shook his head.