He shook his head sadly.

Her eyes wandered momentarily about the studio, until they rested on an easel.  On it stood a water color on which she had been working, trying to put into it some of the feeling which she would never have put into words for him.  On the walls of the apartment were pen and ink sketches, scores of little things which she had done for her own amusement.  She bit her lip as an idea flashed through her mind.

He shook his head again mournfully.

“Somewhere,” she said slowly, “I have read that clever forgers use water colors and pen and ink like regular artists.  Think—­think!  Is there no way that we—­that I could forge a check that would give us breathing space, perhaps rescue us?”

Carlton leaned over the table toward her, fascinated.  He placed both his hands on hers.  They were icy, but she did not withdraw them.

For an instant they looked into each other’s eyes, an instant, and then they understood.  They were partners in crime, amateurs perhaps, but partners as they had been in honesty.

It was a new idea that she had suggested to him.  Why should he not act on it?  Why hesitate?  Why stop at it?  He was already an embezzler.  Why not add a new crime to the list?  As he looked into her eyes he felt a new strength.  Together they could do it.  Hers was the brain that had conceived the way out.  She had the will, the compelling power to carry the thing through.  He would throw himself on her intuition, her brain, her skill, her daring.

On his desk in the corner, where often until far into the night he had worked on the huge ruled sheets of paper covered with figures of the firm’s accounts, he saw two goose-necked vials, one of lemon-colored liquid, the other of raspberry color.  One was of tartaric acid, the other of chloride of lime.  It was an ordinary ink eradicator.  Near the bottles lay a rod of glass with a curious tip, an ink eraser made of finely spun glass threads which scraped away the surface of the paper more delicately than any other tool that had been devised.  There were the materials for his, their rehabilitation if they were placed in his wife’s deft artist fingers.  Here was all the chemistry and artistry of forgery at hand.

“Yes,” he answered eagerly, “there is a way, Constance.  Together we can do it.”

There was no time for tenderness between them now.  It was cold, hard fact and they understood each other too well to stop for endearments.

Far into the night they sat up and discussed the way in which they would go about the crime.  They practised with erasers and with brush and water color on the protective coloring tint on some canceled checks of his own.  Carlton must get a check of a firm in town, a check that bore a genuine signature.  In it they would make such trifling changes in the body as would attract no attention in passing, yet would yield a substantial sum toward wiping out Carlton’s unfortunate deficit.