He walked hurriedly to Mr. Minford’s, and mounted the long, creaking staircases, two steps at a time, tormenting himself all the way with vague apprehensions of evil.

When he entered the room, without knocking (as was his custom of late), he found the inventor standing in front of his machine, with bare arms, hard at work.  Marcus nervously said, “Good morning,” and stepped forward to shake him by the hand, but stopped when he saw that Mr. Minford averted his face, and did not move.

“I wished to show you a letter which I received a few minutes ago,” said the inventor, still not facing Marcus, but busily filing off the rough edge of a brass wheel fresh from the mould.  “There it is, on the table.”

Marcus caught up the letter, and read the following: 

     NEW YORK, Wednesday Forenoon.

     MR. MINFORD: 

RESPECTED SIR:  Allow a true friend and well wisher to ask a few questions.  Who is this Mr. Marcus Wilkeson that has suddenly taken such an interest in your family affairs?  What is his private history?  Why is he relieving you from all trouble and expense in the education of your beautiful child?  What are the man’s real motives?  Would it not be well to spare your eyes from your invention long enough to look into these matters a little?  Pardon the suggestion.  The office of a spy, and a secret accuser, is an unpleasant, and, perhaps, a thankless one.  I should never have assumed it, but for the fact that your ardent devotion to science may render you the easy dupe—­and your daughter the innocent victim—­of a designing and heartless man of the world.  I do not ask you to believe the writer of an anonymous note, and therefore I make no specific charges against this Wilkeson; but merely ask you to inquire into his private character, and, above all, his MOTIVES, for yourself.

     ONE OF MANY.

Though Marcus Wilkeson was as innocent as a child, in deed and thought, of the baseness hinted at in this letter, he felt that he was looking guilty.  Astonishment and indignation kindled in his eyes; but a flush of shame mounted at the same time to his cheeks.  Marcus had often said, that if he were tapped on the shoulder in the street, and charged with a petty theft, he would look guilty of grand larceny until he could regain command of his feelings.  This diseased sensitiveness, inherited from his mother, was the curse of his physical and mental organization.

His shame was increased by a consciousness that the inventor was stealthily watching him, and studying the enlargement of those horrid red spots on his cheeks.

“When Marcus finished the letter, he put on an expression of outraged innocence—­which matched poorly with the flaming tokens of guilt—­and said: 

“These are infernal lies, sir; and, if I knew the coward who wrote them, I would cram them down his throat.”

“Of course they are lies,” returned Mr. Minford.  “Every anonymous letter writer is a liar—­until it is proved that he tells the truth.  I shall believe none of these low aspersions on your honor, Mr. Wilkeson, without conclusive evidence.”  As the inventor said this, not emphatically, Marcus saw that he believed all that the letter had insinuated.