The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

sir; not once.”

      “What! not asked what they were going to do with her mistress?”

      “No, sir.”

      “She has shown, however, that something was preying on her mind—fear, remorse, or anxiety?”

      “No, sir; on the contrary, she has oftener appeared like one secretly elated.”

      “But,” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, with another sidelong look at me, “that was very strange and unnatural. I cannot account for it.”

      “Nor I, sir. I used to try to explain it by thinking her sensibilities had been blunted, or that she was too ignorant to comprehend the seriousness of what had happened; but as I learned to know her better, I gradually changed my mind. There was too much method in her gayety for that. I could not help seeing she had some future before her for which she was preparing herself. As, for instance, she asked me one day if I thought she could learn to play on the piano. And I finally came to the conclusion she had been promised money if she kept the secret intrusted to her, and was so pleased with the prospect that she forgot the dreadful past, and all connected with it. At all events, that was the only explanation I could find for her general industry and desire to improve herself, or for the complacent smiles I detected now and then stealing over her face when she didn’t know I was looking.”

      Not such a smile as crept over the countenance of Mr. Gryce at that moment, I warrant.

      “It was all this,” continued Mrs. Belden, “which made her death such a shock to me. I couldn’t believe that so cheerful and healthy a creature could die like that, all in one night, without anybody knowing anything about it. But——”

      “Wait one moment,” Mr. Gryce here broke in. “You speak of her endeavors to improve herself. What do you mean by that?”

      “Her desire to learn things she didn’t know; as, for instance, to write and read writing. She could only clumsily print when she came here.”

      I thought Mr. Gryce would take a piece out of my arm, he griped it so.

      “When she came here! Do you mean to say that since she has been with you she has learned to write?”

      “Yes, sir; I used to set her copies and——”

      “Where are these copies?” broke in Mr. Gryce, subduing his voice to its most professional tone. “And where are her attempts at writing? I’d like to see some of them. Can’t you get them for us?”

      “I don’t know, sir. I always made it a point to destroy them as soon as they had answered their purpose. I didn’t like to have such things lying around. But I will go see.”

      “Do,” said he; “and I will go with you. I want to take a look at things upstairs, any way.” And, heedless of his rheumatic feet, he rose and prepared to accompany her.

      “This is getting very intense,” I whispered, as he passed me.

      The smile he gave me in reply would have made the fortune of a Thespian Mephistopheles.

      Of the ten minutes of suspense which I endured in their absence, I say nothing. At the end of that time they returned with their hands full of paper boxes, which they flung down on the table.

      “The writing-paper of the household,” observed Mr. Gryce; “every scrap and half-sheet which could be found. But, before you examine it, look at this.” And he held out a sheet of bluish foolscap, on which were written some dozen imitations of that time-worn copy, “BE GOOD AND YOU WILL BE HAPPY”; with an occasional “Beauty soon fades,” and “Evil communications corrupt good manners.”

      “What do you think of that?”

      “Very neat and very legible.”

      “That is Hannah’s latest. The only specimens of her writing to be found. Not much like some scrawls we have seen, eh?”

      “No.”

      “Mrs. Belden says this girl has known how to write as good as this for more than a week. Took great pride in it, and was continually talking about how smart she was.” Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, “This thing you have in your hand must have been scrawled some time ago, if she did it.” Then aloud: “But let us look at the paper she used to write on.”

      Dashing open the covers of the boxes on the table, he took out the loose sheets lying inside, and scattered them out before me. One glance showed they were all of an utterly different quality from that used in the confession. “This is all the paper in the house,” said he.

      “Are you sure of that?” I asked, looking at Mrs. Belden, who stood in a sort of maze before us. “Wasn’t there one stray sheet lying around somewhere, foolscap or something like that, which she might have got hold of and used without your knowing it?”

      “No, sir; I don’t think so. I had only these kinds; besides, Hannah had a whole pile of paper like this in her room, and wouldn’t have been apt to go hunting round after any stray sheets.”

      “But you don’t know what a girl like that might do. Look at this one,” said I, showing her the blank side of the confession. “Couldn’t a sheet like this have come from somewhere about the house? Examine it well; the matter is important.”

      “I have, and I say, no, I never had a sheet of paper like that in my house.”

      Mr. Gryce advanced and took the confession from my hand. As he did so, he whispered: “What do you think now? Many chances that Hannah got up this precious document?”

      I shook my head, convinced at last; but in another moment turned to him and whispered back: “But, if Hannah didn’t write it, who did? And how came it to be found where it was?”

      “That,” said he, “is just what is left for us to learn.” And, beginning again, he put question after question concerning the girl’s life in the house, receiving answers which only tended to show that she could not have brought the confession with her, much less received it from a secret messenger. Unless we doubted Mrs. Belden’s word, the mystery seemed impenetrable, and I was beginning to despair of success, when Mr. Gryce, with an askance look at me, leaned towards Mrs. Belden and said:

      “You received a letter from Miss Mary Leavenworth yesterday, I hear.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “This letter?” he continued, showing it to her.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Now I want to ask you a question. Was the letter, as you see it, the only contents of the envelope in which it came? Wasn’t there one for Hannah enclosed with it?”

      “No, sir. There was nothing in my letter for her; but she had a letter herself yesterday. It came in the same mail with mine.”

      “Hannah had a letter!” we both exclaimed; “and in the mail?”

      “Yes; but it was not directed to her. It was”—casting me a look full of despair, “directed to me. It was only by a certain mark in the corner of the envelope that I knew——”

      “Good heaven!” I interrupted; “where is this letter? Why didn’t you speak of it before? What do you mean by allowing us to flounder about here in the dark, when a glimpse at this letter might have set us right at once?”

      “I didn’t think anything about it till this minute. I didn’t know it was of importance. I——”

      But I couldn’t restrain myself. “Mrs. Belden, where is this letter?” I demanded. “Have you got it?”

      “No,” said she; “I gave it to the girl yesterday; I haven’t seen it since.”

      “It must be upstairs, then. Let us take another look.” and I hastened towards the door.

      “You