His eyes
were glittering dangerously. Muhlenberg blundered on, his own gaze
roving. The Federal term of endearment for Hamilton, "The Little Lion,"
clanged suddenly in his mind, a warning bell.
"I regret to say that we have discovered an improper connection between
yourself and one Reynolds." He produced a bundle of letters and handed
them to Hamilton. "These are not in your handwriting, sir, but I am
informed that you wrote them."
Hamilton glanced at them hastily, and the angry blood raced through his
arteries.
"These letters were written by me," he said. "I disguised my handwriting
for purposes of my own. What is the meaning of this unwarrantable
intrusion into a man's private affairs? Explain yourself at once."
"That is what we have come for, sir. Unfortunately we cannot regard it
as a private affair, but one which concerns the whole nation."
"The whole nation!" thundered Hamilton. "What has the nation to do with
an affair of this sort? Why cannot you tell the truth and say that you
gloat in having discovered this wretched affair,--a common enough
episode in the lives of all of you,--in having another tid-bit for
Freneau? Why did you not take it to him at once? What do you mean by
coming here personally to take me to task?"
"I think there is some misapprehension, sir," said Muhlenberg.
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