"
"But how did you come to be the messenger? Who gave you the letter?" she
persisted quietly.
"Daniel never told me that, Sylvia. But if you want to know, he must
tell you. It might be better for you not to know; you must consider
that. It can make no difference now of any kind."
"It may make a difference," said Sylvia brokenly, not lifting her head;
"it may make a great deal of difference. That's why I speak of it;
that's why I must know!"
"Go on, Daniel; answer Sylvia's question."
"Mr. Fitch gave it to me. It had been entrusted to him for delivery by a
personal friend or a client: I never knew. He assured me that he had no
idea what the letter contained; but he knew of course where it came
from. He chose me for the errand, I suppose, because I was a new man in
the office, and a comparative stranger in town. I remember that he asked
me if I had ever been in Montgomery, as though to be sure I had no
acquaintances there. I carried back a verbal answer--which was
stipulated in the letter. The answer was 'No,' and in what way Mr. Fitch
passed it on to his client I never knew."
"You didn't tell me those things when we found the letter, Daniel," said
Mrs. Owen reproachfully.
The old lady opened a drawer, found a chamois skin, and polished her
glasses slowly. Dan walked away as though to escape from that figure
with averted face crouching by the fire.
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