‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’
‘I have seen it.’
‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.’
Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.
‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’
‘But the impression on the blotter?’
‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.’
‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Some one must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody—or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?’