“There’s no denying that, Mr. Franklin. What of it now, if you please?”
“What of it now? How do we know she may not have stolen the Diamond after all? How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgown purposely with the paint?”
Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could say any more.
“You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt. But I hope you won’t be cleared in that way. See what the letter says, sir. In justice to the girl’s memory, see what it says.”
I felt the earnestness with which he spoke—felt it as a friendly rebuke to me. “You shall form your own judgment on her letter,” I said. “I will read it out.”
I began—and read these lines:
“Sir—I have something to own to you. A confession which means much misery, may sometimes be made in very few words. This confession can be made in three words. I love you.”
The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge. “In the name of Heaven,” I said, “what does it mean?”
He seemed to shrink from answering the question.
“You and Limping Lucy were alone together this morning, sir,” he said. “Did she say nothing about Rosanna Spearman?”