"I hear Jem Wilson is taken up for it."
Mary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade them from the
light, and Esther herself, less accustomed to self-command, was
getting too much agitated for calm observation of another.
"I was taking a walk near Turner Street, and I went to see the
spot," continued Esther, "and, as luck would have it, I spied this
bit of paper in the hedge," producing the precious piece still
folded in her hand. "It has been used as wadding for the gun, I
reckon; indeed, that's clear enough, from the shape it's crammed
into. I was sorry for the murderer, whoever he might be (I didn't
then know of Jem's being suspected), and I thought I would never
leave a thing about as might help, ever so little, to convict him;
the police are so 'cute about straws. So I carried it a little way,
and then I opened it and saw your name, Mary."
Mary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked with surprise at
her aunt's face, as she uttered these words. She WAS kind after
all, for was she not saving her from being summoned, and from being
questioned and examined; a thing to be dreaded above all others:
as she felt sure that her unwilling answers, frame them how she
might, would add to the suspicions against Jem; her aunt was indeed
kind, to think of what would spare her this.
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