George Deaves nodded.
"And addressed to your wife? What a colossal nerve! What have you done? You haven't sent fresh bills?"
Another nod answered him, a somewhat sheepish nod.
"Maud made him," snarled the old man. "Insisted on taking the money down herself and sent it in by the chauffeur."
"But you've communicated with Mr. Hassell?"
"Do you know him?" demanded George Deaves sharply.
"Why of course, as everybody knows him. The most famous landscape painter in America—or at least the most popular. His pictures bring thousands!"
"What good to communicate with him?" said Deaves sullenly. "I might better have him arrested."
"But don't you see," urged Evan, "Hassell couldn't have had anything to do with this, not with the money he makes and his reputation? Not unless he were crazy, and he's the sanest of men! It's as clear as day. They're just using his name. Easy enough for somebody else to get the letter at the club."
"Is this a trick?" muttered George Deaves scowling.