Leland entered. His
face was positively white. Without a word he took us by the arm
and led us across Main Street and up a flight of stairs to his
office. Then he locked the door.
"What's the matter?" asked Kennedy.
"When I took this case," he said, "I believed down in my heart that
Dixon was innocent. I still believe it, but my faith has been
rudely shaken. I feel that you should know about what I have just
found. As I told you, we secured nearly all of Dr. Dixon's letters.
I had not read them all then. But I have been going through them
to-night. Here is a letter from Vera Lytton herself. You will
notice it is dated the day of her death."
He laid the letter before us. It was written in a curious
greyish-black ink in a woman's hand, and read:
DEAR HARRIS:
Since we agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends, if
no longer lovers. I am not writing in anger to reproach you with
your new love, so soon after the old. I suppose Alma Willard is
far better suited to be your wife than is a poor little actress
- rather looked down on in this Puritan society here. But there
is something I wish to warn you about, for it concerns us all
intimately.
We are in danger of an awful mix-up if we don't look out.
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