d
heard of cases where melancholy brooding on a fixed idea had affected
the memory. He took from his pocket a letter-case, and selecting a
letter handed it to Demorest without speaking.

Demorest glanced at it, turned it over, read its contents, and in
a grave voice said, "There is something wrong here. It is like my
handwriting, but I never wrote the letter, nor has it been in my hand
before."

Stacy sprang to his side. "Then it's a forgery!"

"Wait a moment." Demorest, who, although very grave, was the more
collected of the two, went to a writing-desk, selected a sheet of paper,
and took up a pen. "Now," he said, "dictate that letter to me."

Stacy began, Demorest's pen rapidly following him:--

"DEAR JIM,--On receipt of this get rid of my Wheat Trust shares at
whatever figure you can. From the way things pointed in New York"--

"Stop!" interrupted Demorest.

"Well?" said Stacy impatiently.

"Now, my dear Jim," said Demorest plaintively, "when did you ever know
me to write such a sentence as 'the way things pointed'?"

"Let me finish reading," said Stacy. This literary sensitiveness at such
a moment seemed little short of puerility to the man of business.

"From the way things pointed in New York," continued Stacy, "and from
private advices received, this seems to be the only prudent course
before the feathers begin to fly. Longing to see you again and the dear
old stamping-ground at Heavy Tree. Love to Barker. Has the dear old boy
been at any fresh crank lately?

"Yours, PHIL DEMOREST."

The dictation and copy finished together. Demorest laid the freshly
written sheet beside the letter Stacy had produced. They were very much
alike and yet quite distinct from each other. Only the signature seemed
identical.

"That's the invariable mistake with the forger," said Demorest; "he
always forgets that signatures ought to be identical with the text
rather than with each other."

But Stacy did not seem to hear this or require further proof. His face
was quite gray and his lips compressed until lost in his closely set
beard as he gazed fixedly out of the window. For the first time, really
concerned and touched, Demorest laid his hand gently on his shoulder.

"Tell me, Jim, how much does this mean to you apart from me? Don't think
of me."

"I don't know yet," said Stacy slowly. "That's the trouble. And I won't
know until I know who's at the bottom of it. Does anybody know of your
affairs with me?"

"No one