"I hope there's nothing wrong?" he asked, handing the letter to Matt. "I've been thinking there might be something wrong, but I didn't see how there could be. The handwriting of that letter matches your fist on the register—I was careful to look that up before I gave the man the box."
"Read it, pard," implored McGlory, in a mechanical tone.
"'Please deliver to bearer the small box which I left with you for safe-keeping, early this morning,'" Matt read. "'I need it at once, and find that I can't come for it in person.' That's all of it, Joe," said Matt, "and I must say that it's a pretty good imitation of my handwriting. The name is a tremendously good forgery."
The clerk nearly threw a fit; and McGlory nearly helped him.
"Then the letter is a forgery?" cried the clerk. "The man didn't have any right to the box?"
"How could he have any right to the box," stormed McGlory, "when the letter asking you to turn it over to him was never written by Motor Matt? Corral your wits. Sufferin' hold-ups, it's come! We no sooner get out of one raw deal, than we tumble headfirst into another. Now——"
"Take it easy, Joe," cut in Matt. "Wait a minute." He turned to the clerk. "Don't get worked up about this," said he; "you're not to blame. When did the man call and deliver the forged letter?"
"Not more than an hour ago," answered the clerk, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Was there anything very valuable in the box?"
"What sort of looking man was he?" proceeded Matt.
"Slim, and dark, and undersized. Fairly well dressed."