"It isn't a matter of probability," Deane answered. "To the best of my belief, there is no such document in existence."
"In that case," the lawyer continued, "I think that you need have no further anxiety about the case. Of course, there is no chance of a long sentence for the defendant. You understand that?"
"Perfectly," Deane answered. "I don't wish it. I should not have prosecuted him at all, but it seemed the only way to stop what might have grown into a serious annoyance."
"I am sorry," the lawyer said, "that the whole thing seems to have been taken so seriously by the Press and the public. I see your shares have dropped to a ridiculous amount."
"A chance for someone to make money," Deane remarked. "I am much obliged to you for coming up, Hardaway."
The lawyer nodded and took his departure. Deane sat for some time in a brown study. Fundamentally he had all the direct impulses and propensities of a truthful man. The course of action into which he was at present driven was distasteful—almost repugnant to him. Yet, after all, he was only fighting Hefferom with his own weapons. The man was a blackmailer,—nothing more or less. Yet the fact did not seem to Deane to make his hands the cleaner. And there was the girl! The memory of her face haunted him, her desperate plight had been only too apparent. If that document of Sinclair's was worth the paper it was written on, it was he who was the supplanter, the thief, morally responsible for her grievous plight! He moved in his chair uneasily. It was almost a relief when the telephone bell at his elbow rang.
"Is that Mr. Deane?" a woman's voice asked.
"Yes!" he answered.
"Mr. Stirling Deane?"
"Yes,—what is it?" he asked quickly.