"I have no answer to show you," he said.
"You have lost it?" I asked.
"I never had it."
"What do you mean?"
"Madame Pratolungo never answered my letter."
I made him repeat that—once, twice. Was it not incredible that such an appeal could be made to any woman not utterly depraved—and be left unnoticed? Twice he reiterated the same answer. Twice he declared on his honor that not a line of reply had been returned to him. She was then utterly depraved? No! there was a last excuse left that justice and friendship might still make for her. I made it.
"There is but one explanation of her conduct," I said. "She never received the letter. Where did you send it to?"
"To the rectory."
"Who took it?"
"My own servant."