“Then they’ll railroad you to the chair,” said Lane, cheerfully.
“What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?”
“No, I can’t. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and see how or when you could have done it?”
“Don’t be absurd! I couldn’t have done it, except as a signature to that very letter, and I didn’t do that.”
“But——”
“But, look here, Lane—just supposing somebody wanted to blacken my name—in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine some one writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehow to get my signature on it—could it be done with a transfer paper, or something of that sort?”
“Don’t think so—it would be backward, then, wouldn’t it?”
“Why, yes——”
“But did nobody ever persuade you to sign a sheet of blank paper? Wanted your autograph, or that sort of thing?”
“Never! I’m not a celebrity!”