Joshua Starr took the paper in his hand, and gazed at it in a dazed way.
“The signatoor don’t look genewine,” he said, weakly.
Now it chanced that Mr. Starr’s signature was very peculiar—remarkable chiefly for its being a miserable scrawl.
“Doesn’t it look like your writing?” said Andy.
“Well, mebbe it is, a little; but I guess it’s a forgery. I dunno but you wrote it yourself, Andy.”
“Do you believe that, Mr. Ross?” asked Andy, plainly.
“No,” said the lawyer, with a glance of contempt at his client. “I believe it is Mr. Starr’s signature.”
Old Joshua’s lower jaw dropped.
“You ain’t a-goin’ to desert me, squire, are you?”
As he spoke, he cunningly let go the receipt, giving it an impulse toward the open fireplace, where a fire was burning.