“Hoosh! Shall I have to hit you again? I did overlook all the papers. I found the application: it was written by me. There.”
She tossed over the back of her chair an envelope to Thatcher. He opened it.
“I see,” he said gently, “you repossessed yourself of it!”
“What is that—'r-r-r-e—possess'?”
“Why!”—Thatcher hesitated—“you got possession of this paper,—this innocent forgery,—again.”
“Oh! You think me a thief as well as a 'forgaire.' Go away! Get up. Get out.”
“My dear girl—”
“Look at the paper! Will you? Oh, you silly!”
Thatcher looked at the paper. In paper, handwriting, age, and stamp it was identical with the formal, clerical application of Garcia for the grant. The indorsement of Micheltorena was unquestionably genuine. BUT THE APPLICATION WAS MADE FOR ROYAL THATCHER. And his own signature was imitated to the life.
“I had but one letter of yours wiz your name,” said Carmen apologetically; “and it was the best poor me could do.”