It has my name upon it, not yours.''
''Let me see!''
I rise, pull down his arm, see a line of ink; then push him away.
''That''s not my uncle''s hand,'' I say—so disappointed, I could strike him.
''I never said it was,'' says Richard. ''The letter''s from him, but sent by another: his steward, Mr Way.''
''Mr Way?''
''More curious still, hmm? Well, you shall understand that, when you read it. Here.'' He unfolds the paper and hands it to me. ''Read this side, first. It''s a postscript; and explains, at least—what I''ve always thought so queer—why we''ve heard nothing from Briar, till now . . .''
The hand is cramped. The ink is smeared. I tilt the paper to catch what light I can; then read.
Dear Sir.—I found today among my master''s private papers, this letter, & do suppose he meant it to be sent; only, he fell into a grave indisposition shortly after having wrote it, sir, which indisposition he continues in to this day.—Mrs Stiles & me did think at first, that this was through his niece having run off in such a scandalous manner; though we beg leave to notice, sir, that his words herein suggest him not to have been overly astonished by that deed; as, begging leave again sir, no more were we.—We send this respectfully, sir, and presume to hope it finds you cheerful.—Mr Martin Way, Steward of Briar.
I look up, but say nothing. Richard sees my expression and smiles. ''Read the rest,'' he says. I turn the paper over. The letter is short, and dated 3rd of May—seven weeks ago, now. It says this.