“That would preclude imitation?” I asked.
“Why, yes. Offhand, I should say so—unless the one who made the attempt had practiced for years, or has the skill of imitation developed beyond that of any professional forger. But give me a moment, please.”
I waited, tapping with my fingers on the chair arm.
He straightened up at last, with a sigh, then looked at me with his eyebrows drawn and a look of perplexity on his thin, cadaverous face.
“It’s very odd,” said he.
“What’s very odd?”
“Well, Mr. Estabrook, these pieces were not written several years apart—at different periods of life, were they?”
“Why, no,” said I.
“They are not the work of one person, then,” he said, with firm conviction. “I would stake my reputation on that.”
“Then one is an attempt to imitate the other?” I said, stifling a glad exclamation.