"Where was the father? Off, I suppose?"
"Ill in bed," says Mr. Frank, coloring. "But he mustered strength
enough to write a contrite and grateful letter the same day,
promising to prove himself worthy of the noble moderation and
forgiveness extended to him, by selling off everything he
possessed to repay his money debt. He did sell off everything,
down to some old family pictures that were heirlooms; down to the
little plate he had; down to the very tables and chairs that
furnished his drawing-room. Every farthing of the debt was paid;
and he was left to begin the world again, with the kindest
promises of help from the generous man who had forgiven him. It
was too late. His crime of one rash moment--atoned for though it
had been--preyed upon his mind. He became possessed with the idea
that he had lowered himself forever in the estimation of his wife
and daughter, and--"
"He died," I cut in. "Yes, yes, we know that. Let's go back for a
minute to the contrite and grateful letter that he wrote. My
experience in the law, Mr. Frank, has convinced me that if
everybody burned everybody else's letters, half the courts of
justice in this country might shut up shop. Do you happen to know
whether the letter we are now speaking of contained anything like
an avowal or confession of the forgery?"
"Of course it did," says he. "Could the writer express his
contrition properly without making some such confession?"
"Quite easy, if he had been a lawyer," says I.
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