“I deny them,” he replied.
“You thought,” I went on, “that you were very shrewd in not signing the letters, but I got a lot of papers from the cutchery written by you, and signed with your name, and here they are, a dozen of them and a package of letters, all written by you, with every stroke and mark and dot alike.”
“What damnable plot are you hatching?” he exclaimed.
I continued, “In the packet of letters there was a photograph of yourself. This is it.”
“Let me see it,” he said, reaching out for it.
“You can look at it, but it shall not go out of my hands,” I said.
“That is no likeness of mine,” he replied.
I started again, “I went to the photographer and obtained this, another of you, and on the back is written by the same hand that wrote the letters and papers: ‘You may make me one dozen like this. H. J. Smith.’ Is that your handwriting and signature?” I inquired, holding up the back of the picture for him to see.
He rose and began pacing the room back and forth. He evidently found himself caught and bagged. He at length asked:
“What is your object in raking up these youthful follies of mine? I wish you would stop at once.”