“Thanks,” murmured Spenser Churchill, and he rose and opened the cabinet.
Then he selected two or three letters, and, smiling and nodding at the marquis as if they were conspiring to do some good deed in secret, he went to a davenport and wrote.
After a few moments he came across the room, and with his head on one side, a benevolent smile on his innocent face, he dropped a letter on the marquis’ knee.
The marquis took it up and looked at it with a careless air, then started.
“Forgery must be very easy,” he said, with a sneer, “or you must have had a great deal of practice, Spenser.”
“You really think it is like—just a little like?” said Spenser Churchill, as if he had received high praise for a virtuous action. “Now, really, you think it is something of a resemblance?”
“It is so close a forgery that Cecil himself might almost be persuaded that it is his own.”
“No! Really! But read it, dear marquis! The handwriting is only of secondary importance; the style of the letter—eh? What do you say?”
The marquis read the note, and a smile of sardonic amusement lit up his pallid face.
“Now, please don’t flatter me, tell me your true opinion, marquis!” purred Spenser Churchill, leaning forward, and rubbing his hands together.