"Oh, I hardly know. I was so miserable locked up alone, unable to even learn where we were going, that I lost faith in everyone. You acted so strange."
"I had to play my part. But you received my note?"
"Yes, and it helped me wonderfully, although even then I scarcely comprehended why all this pretense was necessary. Surely you do not believe this man is Philip Henley? that—that I have told you a lie?"
"No, I do not," I answered earnestly. "It is my absolute confidence in you which has held me steadfast. He has shown me evidence of his identity which would have convinced me under other circumstances—letters and pictures; I will show them to you, for I know where they are kept in the desk—but in opposition I had your word, and I believed in that. No evidence would shake my faith in you, and I am certain now there is fraud here—some devilish plot concocted to steal Judge Henley's fortune."
"What letters? What pictures were they?"
"Letters from the Judge to his son—intimate, family letters, and a photograph of the father and this man taken together."
"And were the letters addressed to Philip?"
"The envelopes had been destroyed, and no name was mentioned, but the photograph was endorsed in the Judge's handwriting."
She sank down on a locker, and hid her face in her hands. The pitiful dejection in her attitude compelled me to bend over her in quick sympathy.
"Please do not take it like that," I urged. "We shall find a way of escape if we keep our courage, and work together."