DICKENSON.
CHARVILLE.
Yes, yes! Sir Level is there with his cursed plans: they are in my dressing-room too; they are every where. Watch by the door, I say, for a few minutes. [Exit Dickenson.
(Taking out the letter with agitation.)
"To Sir Robert Freemantle." Her own handwriting: that fair character for such foul ends! What man on earth would not do as I do? (Breaking open the seal.) A cover only. The enclosed. (Reads again.) "To Miss Freemantle." Is this all? (Examining the envelope.) What's here? A coarse scratched drawing of a horned bat. (Reads again.) "You will understand what I mean by this, though it is but a scratch."—No more! By Jove there is some mischievous meaning under this! It is my likeness she would give under that of a bat, and she will add the horns to the original, if she can. (Reads again.) "To Miss Freemantle." If this should be a device now, lest the letter should be opened! I'll pawn my life it is. "To Miss Freemantle." We shall see; we shall see. (Tears open the enclosed letter.) Mercy on us! three pages and a half so closely written!
DICKENSON (without).
