There, I broke off in the reading of the letter for the second time.

I had read those portions of the miserable woman’s confession which related to myself, with unaffected surprise, and, I can honestly add, with sincere distress.  I had regretted, truly regretted, the aspersion which I had thoughtlessly cast on her memory, before I had seen a line of her letter.  But when I had advanced as far as the passage which is quoted above, I own I felt my mind growing bitterer and bitterer against Rosanna Spearman as I went on.  “Read the rest for yourself,” I said, handing the letter to Betteredge across the table.  “If there is anything in it that I must look at, you can tell me as you go on.”

“I understand you, Mr. Franklin,” he answered.  “It’s natural, sir, in you.  And, God help us all!” he added, in a lower tone, “it’s no less natural in her.”

I proceed to copy the continuation of the letter from the original, in my own possession:—­

“Having determined to keep the nightgown, and to see what use my love, or my revenge (I hardly know which) could turn it to in the future, the next thing to discover was how to keep it without the risk of being found out.

“There was only one way—­to make another nightgown exactly like it, before Saturday came, and brought the laundry-woman and her inventory to the house.

“I was afraid to put it off till next day (the Friday); being in doubt lest some accident might happen in the interval.  I determined to make the new nightgown on that same day (the Thursday), while I could count, if I played my cards properly, on having my time to myself.  The first thing to do (after locking up your nightgown in my drawer) was to go back to your bed-room—­not so much to put it to rights (Penelope would have done that for me, if I had asked her) as to find out whether you had smeared off any of the paint-stain from your nightgown, on the bed, or on any piece of furniture in the room.

“I examined everything narrowly, and at last, I found a few streaks of the paint on the inside of your dressing-gown—­not the linen dressing-gown you usually wore in that summer season, but a flannel dressing-gown which you had with you also.  I suppose you felt chilly after walking to and fro in nothing but your nightdress, and put on the warmest thing you could find.  At any rate, there were the stains, just visible, on the inside of the dressing-gown.  I easily got rid of these by scraping away the stuff of the flannel.  This done, the only proof left against you was the proof locked up in my drawer.

“I had just finished your room when I was sent for to be questioned by Mr. Seegrave, along with the rest of the servants.  Next came the examination of all our boxes.  And then followed the most extraordinary event of the day—­to me—­since I had found the paint on your nightgown.  This event came out of the second questioning of Penelope Betteredge by Superintendent Seegrave.