She read the few lines instructing the English Bank to hand over Sir Henry Hunterleys' letters to the bearer. Then she looked up at him with a puzzled frown.
"I don't understand."
"Did you write that?" he enquired.
She looked at him indignantly.
"What an absurd question!" she exclaimed. "Your correspondence has no interest for me."
Her denial, so natural, so obviously truthful, was a surprise to him. He felt a sudden impulse of joy, mingled with shame. Perhaps, after all, he had been altogether too censorious. Once more he directed her attention to the sheet of paper. There was a marked change in his voice and manner.
"Violet," he begged, "please look at it. Accepting without hesitation your word that you did not write it, doesn't it occur to you that the body of the letter is a distinct imitation of your handwriting, and the signature a very clever forgery of mine?"
"It is rather like my handwriting," she admitted, "and as for the signature, do you mean to say really that that is not yours?"
"Certainly not," he assured her. "The whole thing is a forgery."
"But who in the world should want to get your letters?" she asked incredulously. "And why should you have them addressed to the bank?"