Only a mob could so indulge
itself; individuals will not dare."
She thought of the letter which had been passed up to him in
court, and surveyed him with an astonishment she made no effort to
conceal. Never had she felt at a greater disadvantage with him.
Never had she understood him less. Was this attempt at unconcern,
so pitiably transparent to her, made in an endeavour to probe her
mind or to deceive his own? In her anxiety to determine, she
hesitatingly remarked:
"Not the man who writes those anonymous letters?"
"Letters?" Involuntarily his hand flew to one of his inner
pockets.
"Yes, you have found them, have you not, lying about the grounds?"
"No." He looked startled. "Explain yourself," said he. "What
letters? Not such as--" Again his hand went to his pocket, but
shrunk hastily back as she pulled out a crumpled bit of paper and
began to smooth it out for his perusal.
"What have you there?" he cried.
"Such a letter as I speak of, Judge Ostrander. I picked it up from
the walk a day or so ago. Perhaps you have come upon the like?"
"No; why should I?"
He had started back, but his eye falling involuntarily upon the
words she had spread out before him, he rapidly read them, and
aghast at their import, glanced from the paper to her face and
back again, crying:
"He means Oliver! We have an enemy, Mrs. Scoville, an enemy! Do
you know"--here he leaned forward, and plunged his eye, now
burning with many passions, into hers--"who this enemy is?"
"Yes.
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