I took
it out, and opened it. It was a letter of many pages, closely written. I
looked impatiently for the signature at the end. "Rosanna Spearman."
As I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my mind, and a
sudden suspicion rose out of the new light.
"Stop!" I exclaimed. "Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt out of a
reformatory? Rosanna Spearman had once been a thief?"
"There's no denying that, Mr. Franklin. What of it now, if you please?"
"What of it now? How do we know she may not have stolen the Diamond
after all? How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgown
purposely with the paint?"
Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could say
any more.
"You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt. But I
hope you won't be cleared in THAT way. See what the letter says, sir. In
justice to the girl's memory, see what it says."
I felt the earnestness with which he spoke--felt it as a friendly rebuke
to me. "You shall form your own judgment on her letter," I said. "I will
read it out."
I began--and read these lines:
"Sir--I have something to own to you. A confession which means much
misery, may sometimes be made in very few words.
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