“I came for my gloves. You may keep the apology.”
“But, my dear sir!” Wolfe wiggled a finger again. “Permit me at least to describe my offense. I wish to apologize for forging your name.”
Chapin lifted his brows. Wolfe turned to me:
“A copy of the confession, Archie.”
I went to the safe and got it and gave it to him. He unfolded it and handed it across to the cripple. I sat down and grinned at Wolfe, but he pretended not to notice; he leaned back with his eyes half closed, laced his fingers at his belly, and sighed.
Chapin read the confession twice. He first glanced at it indifferently and ran through it rapidly, then took a squint at Wolfe, twisted his lips a little, and read the confession all over again, not nearly so fast.
He tossed it over to the desk. “Fantastic,” he declared. “Set down that way, prosaically, baldly, it sounds fantastic. Doesn’t it?”
Wolfe nodded. “It struck me, Mr. Chapin, that you went to a great deal of trouble for a pitifully meager result. Of course, you understand that I required this document for the impression it would make on your friends, and knowing the impossibility of persuading you to sign it for me, I was compelled to write your name myself. That is what I wish to apologize for. Here are your gloves, sir. I take it that my apology is accepted.”
The cripple took the gloves, felt them, put them in his inside breast pocket, grabbed the arms of his chair and raised himself. He stood leaning on his stick.
“You knew I wouldn’t sign such a document? How did you know that?”