"Well, sir, are you quite satisfied now?" he asked. "Is there any reasonable doubt that——"
"No doubt that the deed purporting to have been signed so long ago was only written to-day. So far as that is concerned, you have proved your case up to the hilt, Field. Nobody is going to gain anything by the publication of that deed. But there is one thing that sticks, and I cannot get it down at all—the genuineness of that signature."
"It does look like a real signature," Field admitted. "But you want to suggest that Sir Charles came back from the grave to-day to write it? I wonder if there is something new in the way of forgery—some means whereby a genuine signature could be transformed from one paper to another without injuring the ink in the slightest. They say they can take all the paint off a picture and place it on a new canvas without so much as injuring a brush mark. That being the case, why couldn't it be done with a man's signature?"
Fleming bit the end of his pen thoughtfully.
"It may be possible that some cunning rascal has invented an entirely new process," he said. "But anyway, I'm prepared to swear to the genuineness of this signature. There is only one other way to account for
the whole business, and as a sane man who has long come to years of discretion, I am almost afraid to mention it to a business man like yourself."
Field looked up quickly.
"I have a little hesitation also," he said, "because you may have laughed at me. Is it possible, sir, that you and I have hit upon the same theory?"
The two men looked at each other, and there was a long silence between them.