“It is a forgery; a clever one, I own, but still a forgery. I never signed that paper—never saw it till this instant.”
“Well,” said Enrique, slowly, “I scarcely expected so much of memory from you. It is true, as you say, you never did sign it; but I did.”
“You, Enrique,—you?” exclaimed Cashel.
“Yes, Roland. I accompanied Linton to Limerick at his request, dressed to personate you. We were met at the hotel by two persons summoned to witness this act of signature; of the meaning of which I, of course, appeared to know nothing; nor did I, indeed, till long afterwards discover the real significance.”
“And how came you by it eventually?”
“By imitating Linton's own proceedings. I saw that for security he placed it in an iron box, which he carried with him to Limerick, and which contained another document of apparently far greater value. This casket was long enough in my company on that morning to enable me to take a model of the key, by which I afterwards had another made, and by means of which I obtained possession of both these papers—for here is the other.”
“And when did you take them?”
“About an hour ago. I saw this drama was drawing to a finish. I knew that Linton's schemes were advancing more rapidly than I could follow; his increased confidence of manner proved to me his consciousness of strength, and yet I could neither unravel his cunning nor detect his artifice. Nothing then remained but to carry off these papers; and as the hour of my own departure drew nigh, there was no time to lose. There they are both. I hope you will be a more careful depositary than you have been hitherto.”
“And where is Linton?” cried Roland, his passionate eagerness for revenge mastering every other feeling.
“Still your guest. He dines and does the honors of your board to-day, as he did yesterday, and will to-morrow.”