"And did Mr. Armstrong write them?"
"He'll deny it, I suppose," answered Kirkby.
"But I am familiar with his handwriting," said Maitland.
Taking the still unopened packet from Newbold he opened it, examined one of the letters and handed them all back.
"There is no doubt about it," he said. "It's Armstrong's hand, I'll swear to it."
"Oh, I'll acknowledge them," said Armstrong, seeing the absolute futility of further denial. He had forgotten all about the letters. He had not dreamed they were in existence. "You've got me beat between you, the cards are stacked against me, I've done my damndest—" and indeed that was true.
Well, he had played a great game, battling for a high stake he had stuck at nothing. A career in which some good had mingled with much bad was now at an end. He had lost utterly, would he show himself a good loser?
"Mr. Armstrong," said Newbold, quietly extending his hand, "here are your letters."
"What do you mean?"
"I am not in the habit of reading letters addressed to other people without permission and when the recipient of them is dead long since, I am doubly bound."