that signature."

"It does look like a real signature," Field admitted. "But you want to
suggest that Sir Charles came back from the grave to-day to write it? I
wonder if there is something new in the way of forgery--some means
whereby a genuine signature could be transformed from one paper to
another without injuring the ink in the slightest. They say they can
take all the paint off a picture and place it on a new canvas without so
much as injuring a brush mark. That being the case, why couldn't it be
done with a man's signature?"

Fleming bit the end of his pen thoughtfully.

"It may be possible that some cunning rascal has invented an entirely
new process," he said. "But anyway, I'm prepared to swear to the
genuineness of this signature. There is only one other way to account
for the whole business, and as a sane man who has long come to years of
discretion, I am almost afraid to mention it to a business man like
yourself."

Field looked up quickly.

"I have a little hesitation also," he said, "because you may have
laughed at me. Is it possible, sir, that you and I have hit upon the
same theory?"

The two men looked at each other, and there was a long silence between
them.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Field walked away thoughtfully from the office of Mr. Fleming. He was a
little pleased to find that the lawyer took the same view of the mystery
as himself. There was a great deal to be done yet. It was getting very
late indeed before Field made his way once more in the direction of
Wandsworth. He had an important paper in his pocket, and he had given
directions for two of his most trusted men to meet him outside No. 100,
Audley Place, by eleven o'clock.

But those other men had other tasks to perform first, and they might be
some time yet. With this knowledge in his mind, Field repaired to the
garden in front of the house and there decided to wait for developments.
It was not a cold night, the bushes in the garden were thick, and Field
felt that he would be just as well there as anywhere else. His patience
was not unduly tried. He chuckled slightly to himself as he saw Beatrice
arrive. He had a pretty shrewd idea what she was here for.

"The old fox is not quite certain of his goal," he told himself. "He
thinks he has got everything in his grip--that the forged deed will do
the mischief, but perhaps there are other papers. That is why he has
sent for Mrs. Richford. We shall see."

If Sartoris had known what r