I regarded her in surprise; her question amazed me. In her eyes I noticed a look of intense earnestness and appeal for sympathy.
“Well, what if I have?” I inquired.
“If you have, they will, I know, be regarded by you as evidence that Dudley was a forger.”
“That is what I believe him to have been,” I said with bitterness.
“You judge him wrongly,” she replied quite calmly, her face nevertheless as white as the simple-made dinner gown she wore. “I have already seen those papers, and know their authorship.”
“Did not Dudley trace my writing?”
“He never did,” she replied. “As his death was encompassed by his enemies, so is dishonour cast upon his memory.”
“Then you allege that he was the victim of conspiracy!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“No doubt. When I am at last free to speak I shall prove it, and by so doing remove from myself the suspicion now resting upon me.” She spoke earnestly, with an intense ring in her voice that told me she now uttered the truth.
“For what reason was it desired to imitate my handwriting?” I asked, pressing her hand tenderly. “Come, tell me, Ella.”