“I think, Mr. Carleton, you can scarcely realize the gravity of the moment, or the mistake you are making in refusing to answer this question.”
“I have nothing to say,” repeated Carleton, and his pallor changed to a faint, angry flush of red.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Benson gently. He seemed to have lost his pompous manner in his genuine anxiety for his witness, and he looked sorrowfully at Carleton’s impassive, yet stubborn face.
“As so much hinges on the question of who wrote that paper,” he resumed, “I will make a test now that ought to convince us all. Miss Dupuy, you say that you wrote it, I believe.”
“I did, yes, sir,” said Cicely, stammering a little now, though she had been calm enough a few minutes before.
“Then you know the words on the paper,—by rote?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cicely, uncertain of where this was leading.
“I will ask you, then, to take this paper and pencil, your own pencil and write the same words in the same way once more.”
“Oh, don’t ask me to do that!” implored Cicely, clasping her hands and looking very distressed.
“I not only ask you, but I direct you to do it, and do it at once.”