Marston was not perfectly satisfied, though very nearly, with the
evidence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen perusal of which
had so agitated him that day, bore no signature; but, independently of
the handwriting, which seemed, spite of the constraint of an attempted
disguise, to be familiar to his eye, there existed, in the matter of the
letter, short as it was, certain internal evidences, which, although not
actually conclusive, raised, in conjunction with all the other
circumstances, a powerful presumption in aid of his suspicions. He
resolved, however, to sift the matter further, and to bide his time.
Meanwhile his manner must indicate no trace of his dark surmises and
bitter thoughts. Deception, in its two great branches, simulation and
dissimulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would
divest any accidental and momentary disclosure of his inward trouble of
everything suspicious or unaccountable, which would have characterized
such displays and eccentricities in another man.

His rapid and reckless ramble, a kind of physical vent for the paroxysm
which had so agitated him throughout the greater part of the day, had
soiled and disordered his dress, and thus had helped to give to his whole
appearance a certain air of haggard wildness, which, in the privacy of
his chamber, he hastened carefully and entirely to remove.

At supper, Marston was apparently in unusually good spirits. Sir Wynston
and he chatted gaily and fluently upon many subjects, grave and gay.
Among them the inexhaustible topic of popular superstition happened to
turn up, and especially the subject of strange prophecies of the fates
and fortunes of individuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of their
afterlife.