He drew the photograph into sight, turned it over, and pushed it under Clancy's eyes.
"There!" and he pointed with his finger. "That's a sample o' dad's fist."
Upton Hill, age thirty-six. This was all the writing on the back of the photograph. It was enough, however. Clancy compared the name signed to the letter with that on the photograph. It could be seen at a glance that the same hand had not written the two signatures–they were utterly different.
"Just as I imagined," observed Clancy. "Hiram, either your father did not write what is on the back of the photograph, or else that letter is a forgery. The same hand did not trace the two signatures. Look! You can see that just as plainly as I can."
Hill took the letter in one hand and the photograph in the other, squinted up his cross eyes, and tried to institute comparisons.
"The signature ain't the same," he finally agreed, "and that's a fact."
"Which proves that the letter's a forgery."
"I'm not a-sayin' that, Clancy. It can't be that dad wrote what's on the back o' the picter."
"You have always thought he did the writing on the back of the photograph, haven't you?"
"Then you're thinking he didn't, now, so you can believe the letter's genuine."