ple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn
widow,

"'Louisa Hawke.'

"From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage
to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great
guilt,--far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward
in all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told
me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign,
saying jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a
countryman.' Now, I call this consummate calculation."

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was
examining the writing.

"I wonder," said be, "what the fellows who affect to decipher character
in handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed."

"Is it very small? Are the letters minute?--for that, they allege, is
one of the indications of a cruel nature," said Alfred. "They show a
specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read
it."

"No," said Quackinboss; "that's what they call a bold, free hand; the
writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count
consequences."

"Let _me_ interpret her," said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him,
and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment "What's this?"
cried he, almost wildly. "I know this hand well; I could swear to it.
You shall see if I cannot."' And, without another word, he arose, and
rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover
from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in
his hand. "Come here, both of you, now," cried he, "and tell me, are not
these in the same writing?" They were several short notes,--invitations
or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris.
"What do you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand
or not?" cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.

[Illustration: 550]

"'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!" broke out Quackinboss; "and our widow
woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke."

"And Clara his daughter!" muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with
his hands to hide his emotion.

"These were written by the same person, that's clear enough," said the
doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; "there are
marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you
speak of?"

Alfred could only stammer out, "He 'll t