"Indeed, sir, I am ashamed that it is no better. At school I learned better, but I have so little occasion to write."
"So long as it is the signature you would use in the church, it will serve," said the vicar. "Come, let us to St. Nicholas at once, and send for the clerk. We will examine these registers, and we will read the rest of the letter afterwards."
The chest was unlocked; the registers were taken out; the books were opened at the right page. The vicar laid Molly's writing beside that of the register.
"You see," said the vicar, "the very signature proclaims the cheat. We have been, of a verity, seized with judicial blindness for our sins."
The differences were not such as could be explained away, for the signature in the book was round and full and flowing—a bold signature for a woman—every letter well formed and of equal size, and in a straight line; the work of one who wrote many letters, and prided herself, apparently, on the clearness and beauty of her hand. Molly's, on the other hand, showed letters awkwardly formed, not in line, of unequal height, and the evident work of one unaccustomed to writing.
"What doubt have we now?" asked the vicar. "My friends, I see daylight. But let us return to complete my reverend brother's letter."
The letter thus continued:
"You have now, I take it, satisfied yourself that your ward could not possibly have penned that signature. You have no doubt, if you had any before, that your ward's denial was the truth.
"At the same time you do not appear to have considered the matter worth fighting. It was not, for assuredly a court of justice, even with the handwriting as evidence, would have decided against you. So far, you were well advised.
"You, therefore, withdrew opposition, and suffered the husband to take over, what he claimed, control of the estate.