“Send for my brother’s doctor,” she said, as soon as she could speak.
The doctor came. She handed him a letter before he could say a word.
“Did you write that letter?”
He looked it over rapidly, and answered her without hesitation,
“Certainly not!”
“It is your handwriting.”
“It is a forgery of my handwriting.”
She rose from the chair with a new strength in her.
“When does the return mail start for Paris?” she asked.
“In half an hour.”