The bars dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till the chain tightened at the staple. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived. “Katy Pfister.
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