“God bless me!” he exclaimed.  “Michael Carstairs!”

“Just that,” said Mr. Lindsey.  “Now then, compare Michael Carstairs’ handwriting with the handwriting of that letter.  Come here, Hugh!—­you, too, have a look.  And—­there’s no need for any very close or careful looking, either!—­no need for expert calligraphic evidence, or for the use of microscopes.  I’ll stake all I’m worth that that signature and that letter are the work of the same hand!”

Now that I saw the Smeaton letter and the signature of the first witness to Gilverthwaite’s will, side by side, I had no hesitation in thinking as Mr. Lindsey did.  It was an exceptionally curious, not to say eccentric, handwriting—­some of the letters were oddly formed, other letters were indicated rather than formed at all.  It seemed impossible that two different individuals could write in that style; it was rather the style developed for himself by a man who scorned all conventional matters, and was as self-distinct in his penmanship as he probably was in his life and thoughts.  Anyway, there was an undeniable, an extraordinary similarity, and even Mr. Portlethorpe had to admit that it was—­undoubtedly—­there.  He threw off his impatience and irritability, and became interested—­and grave.

“That’s very strange, and uncommonly important, Lindsey!” he said.  “I—­yes, I am certainly inclined to agree with you.  Now, what do you make of it?”

“If you want to know my precise idea,” replied Mr. Lindsey, “it’s just this—­Michael Carstairs and Martin Smeaton are one and the same man—­or, I should say, were!  That’s about it, Portlethorpe.”

“Then in that case—­that young fellow at Dundee is Michael Carstairs’ son?” exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe.

“And, in my opinion, that’s not far off the truth,” said Mr. Lindsey.  “You’ve hit it!”

“But—­Michael Carstairs was never married!” declared Mr. Portlethorpe.

Mr. Lindsey picked up Gilverthwaite’s will and the Smeaton letter, and carefully locked them away in his drawer.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he remarked, drily.  “Michael Carstairs was very evidently a queer man who did a lot of things in a peculiar fashion of his own, and—­”

“The solicitor who sent us formal proof of his death, from Havana, previous to Sir Alexander’s death, said distinctly that Michael had never been married,” interrupted Mr. Portlethorpe.  “And surely he would know!”

“And I say just as surely that from all I’ve heard of Michael Carstairs there’d be a lot of things that no solicitor would know, even if he sat at Michael’s dying bed!” retorted Mr. Lindsey.  “But we’ll see.  And talking of beds, it’s time I was showing you to yours, and that we were all between the sheets, for it’s one o’clock in the morning, and we’ll have to be stirring again at six sharp.  And I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Portlethorpe, to save time—­we’ll just take a mere cup of coffee and a mouthful of bread here, and we’ll breakfast in Edinburgh—­we’ll be there by eight-thirty.  So now come to your beds.”