Mr. Sprague nodded.
“Our friend, Mr. Chase, has them now. He will let you look at them.”
The young man, who could not have been a day over twenty-five, looked extremely embarrassed. Not like a hard-boiled detective at all, Linda thought. Indeed, he flashed her a look of sympathy, as if he did not share in Sprague’s accusation. Still, it was his business, and he had to go through with it.
He fumbled in his pockets and produced two cards, identical at a glance. The same numbers, the same printing—and what looked like the same signatures.
“Don’t let them out of your hands, Chase,” warned Sprague, evidently determined to be as nasty as possible.
“You see, ladies,” Chase said, almost apologetically. “This signature is forged.” He held up one of the cards. “Look at the capital ‘L’. It hasn’t been copied quite right.”
“Of course it hasn’t!” cried Dot. “But the other one is yours, Linda.”
“Yes,” agreed Linda, trembling in spite of her innocence, “I remember that mud-spot on mine. I got it on that treasure-hunt that Mr. Clavering planned, from Green Falls last summer.”
“Odd,” remarked Sprague, sarcastically. “That is the very mud-spot the real Miss Carlton identified her card by!”
“What do you propose to do?” demanded Dot, now thoroughly exasperated.