It was good black ink, evidently too good, for the captain carefully diluted it with water.
Then he took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and selecting the longest spread it out upon the bureau, lit a cigar and studied the handwriting with the closest attention.
It was the handwriting of John Mildmay, and the letter was one of many he had written to his good and kind friend, Captain Howard Murpoint.
"I can imitate that, I think," muttered the captain; "let me try."
For half an hour he persevered, and at the end of that time he had succeeded in imitating the handwriting of his dear, dead friend so closely that John Mildmay's ghost, if it had risen and peeped over the forger's shoulder, could not have distinguished the forgery from the original.
"There," he muttered. "I'll defy all the lawyers in the world to detect that. Now for the deed."
He drew the parchment toward him, and, proceeding with the greatest care and minuteness, drew up a document, which he signed with the name of John Mildmay.
The deed purported to be witnessed by an old coachman and his wife, both of whom were dead.
Then he took his flour dredger, and poured into it from a box which he had concealed in his dressing-case a quantity of finely powdered dust.