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.”

“No confidential friend, eh?”

“None.”

“No one who has access to your secrets?  No—­no—­woman?  Excuse me, Phil,” he said, as a peculiar look passed over Demorest’s face, “but this is business.”

“No,” he returned, with that gentleness that used to frighten them in the old days, “it’s ignorance.  You fellows always say ’Cherchez la femme’ when you can’t say anything else.  Come now,” he went on more brightly, “look at the letter.  Here’s a man, commercially educated, for he has used the usual business formulas, ‘on receipt of this,’ and ‘advices received,’ which I won’t merely say I don’t use, but which few but commercial men use.  Next, here’s a man who uses slang, not only ineptly, but artificially, to give the letter the easy, familiar