“I admit your logic, old man,” said Demorest, with an amused face, “but I don't see your premises. WHEN did I tell you to sell out?”
“Two days ago. You wrote just after you arrived.”
“I have never written to you since I arrived. I only telegraphed to you to know where we should meet, and received your message to come here.”
“You never wrote me from San Francisco?”
“Never.”
Stacy looked concernedly at his friend. Was he in his right mind? He had heard of cases where melancholy brooding on a fixed idea had affected the memory. He took from his pocket a letter-case, and selecting a letter handed it to Demorest without speaking.
Demorest glanced at it, turned it over, read its contents, and in a grave voice said, “There is something wrong here. It is like my handwriting, but I never wrote the letter, nor has it been in my hand before.”
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:—