I--"
"But this letter?" demanded Vane, fiercely.
"I know no more about it than you do, Ransom. I found it there on the
porch."
"But it is yours?--you wrote it?"
"No; a thousand times no," articulated August Bordine, in a convincing
tone.
Ransom Vane groaned and reeled against a post, the letter falling from
his nerveless hand to the ground.
For some moments not a word passed between the two. Both were evidently
thinking.
The thoughts of Bordine were not pleasant ones. He remembered the tramp
who had that morning made himself so disagreeable to Victoria. It must be
that he was the author of this horrible crime.
Another figure too came up before the vision of the young engineer, the
man on horseback who sat with lifted hat, bowing to Victoria Vane, just
as he (Bordine) entered the woods.
One of these men had committed the deed. Which one? Most likely the
tramp.
Such were the thoughts that passed through the brain of August in the
five minutes that he stood silently regarding vacancy.
"August."
The voice of the sorrowing brother fell sadly on the ear of the engineer.
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