“Ah!” says I, “I know what he did. He had a signature to write; and, by the most natural mistake in the world, he wrote another gentleman’s name instead of his own--eh?” “It was to a bill,” says Mr. Frank, looking very crestfallen, instead of taking the joke. “His principal creditor wouldn’t wait till he could raise the money, or the greater part of it. But he was resolved, if he sold off everything, to get the amount and repay--” “Of course,” says I, “drop that. The forgery was discovered. When?” “Before even the first attempt was made to negotiate the bill. He had done the whole thing in the most absurdly and innocently wrong way. The person whose name he had used was a stanch friend of his, and a relation of his wife’s--a good man as well as a rich one. He had influence with the chief creditor, and he used it nobly. He had a real affection for the unfortunate man’s wife, and he proved it generously.” “Come to the point,” says I. “What did he do? In a business way, what did he do?” “He put the false bill into the fire, drew a bill of his own to replace it, and then--only then--told my dear girl and her mother all that had happened. Can you imagine anything nobler?” asks Mr. Frank. “Speaking in my professional capacity, I can’t imagine anything greener,” says I. “Where was the father? Off, I suppose?” “Ill in bed,” says Mr. Frank, coloring. “But he mustered strength enough to write a contrite and grateful letter the same day, promising to prove himself worthy of the noble moderation and forgiveness extended to him, by selling off everything he possessed to repay his money debt. He did sell off everything, down to some old family pictures that were heirlooms; down to the little plate he had; down to the very tables and chairs that furnished his drawing-room. Every farthing of the debt was paid; and he was left to begin the world again, with the kindest promises of help from the generous man who had forgiven him. It was too late. His crime of one rash moment--atoned for though it had been--preyed upon his mind. He became possessed with the idea that he had lowered himself forever in the estimation of his wife and daughter, and--” “He died,” I cut in. “Yes, yes, we know that. Let’s go back for a minute to the contrite and grateful letter that he wrote. My experience in the law, Mr. Frank, has convinced me that if everybody burned everybody else’s letters, half the courts of justice in this country might shut up shop. Do you happen to know whether the letter we are now speaking of contained anything like an avowal or confession of the forgery?” “Of course it did,” says he. “Could the writer express his contrition properly without making some such confession?”