There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernalia that had been selected with taste and good judgment.
The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with the best of writing appointments.
“Any more letters from you here?” Prescott said, as if casually, while he took a bundle of papers.
“Probably,” Barry returned, shortly; “if one could be forged, more could be.”
“Look here, Mr Barry,” the detective said, seriously, “just explain, will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts have concluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible that your very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, as it evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied, some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still a possibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written the typed message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Did you ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?”
“Never!” Barry declared. “Why should I do such a thing?”
“Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn’t, the letter must be all yours. Why not admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminating than the denial.”
“But I didn’t write it,” Barry insisted. “I didn’t type it, or sign it.”
“Then the murderer did,” Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. “Can you make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If you had ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write on it, you see——”
“Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing I should remember it! No; I can’t suggest how it was done. It is to me an insoluble problem, and I admit I’m curious. But I never saw that letter until you showed it to me.”