He followed Merxler into the cab.
Merxler drew his hand across his eyes in a dazed way, and laughed nervously.
“I can’t see your face now, and you had a mask on before,” he said jerkily. “This is a queer business! Who are you? What’s it mean? Those securities were in my safe an hour ago—how did they get into Karlin’s pocket? What was he doing with them?”
“Stoop over!” said Billy Kane quietly. He handed Merxler the forged letter, and flashed the ray of his lamp upon the paper.
His head bent forward, Merxler read the letter, and his face, already white under the ray, gradually took on a drawn, grayish pallor.
“I—I never wrote this,” he faltered. “It’s my handwriting, but I—I never wrote it.”
“Nor your uncle this,” said Billy Kane, the same grim, quiet intonation in his voice, as he placed the will in turn in Merxler’s hand.
The light played on the paper, and over Merxler’s face. Billy Kane sat drawn back in the shadows.
There was moisture on Merxler’s forehead, as he looked up after a moment.
“My God,” he whispered hoarsely, “what does this mean?”