"Rush of blood to the head," he said, quietly; "felt it coming on all the morning. Gone now. Nothing like cold water and sitting posture. Hope I didn't spoil your carpet. And now to come back to your business." He drew up his chair, without the least trace of his former diffidence, beside Donna Dolores, "Let's take another look at your grant." He took it up, drew a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the signature. "Yes, yes! signature all right. Seal of the Custom House. Paper all regular." He rustled it in his fingers, "You're all right--the swindle is with Madame Devarges. There's the forgery--there's this spurious grant." "I think not," said Donna Dolores, quietly. "Why?" "Suppose the grant is exactly like this in everything, paper, signature, seal and all." "That proves nothing," said Mr. Perkins, quickly. "Look you. When this grant was drawn--in the early days--there were numbers of these grants lying in the Custom House like waste paper, drawn and signed by the Governor, in blank, only wanting filling in by a clerk to make them a valid document. She!--this impostor--this Madame Devarges, has had access to these blanks, as many have since the American Conquest, and that grant is the result. But she is not wise, no! I know the handwriting of the several copyists and clerks--I was one myself. Put me on the stand, Donna Dolores--put me on the stand, and I'll confront her as I have the others." "You forget," said Donna Dolores, coldly, "that I have no desire to legally test this document. And if Spanish grants are so easily made, why might not this one of mine be a fabrication? You say you know the handwriting of the copyists--look at this." Mr. Perkins seized the grant impatiently, and ran his eye quickly over the interlineations between the printed portions. "Strange!" he muttered. "This is not my own nor Sanchez; nor Ruiz; it is a new hand. Ah! what have we here--a correction in the date--in still another hand? And this--surely I have seen something like it in the office. But where?" He stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, but after an effort at recollection abandoned the attempt. "But why?" he said, abruptly, "why should this be forged?" "Suppose that the other were genuine, and suppose that this woman got possession of it in some wicked way. Suppose that some one, knowing of this, endeavoured by this clever forgery to put difficulties in her way without exposing her." "But who would do that?" "Perhaps the brother--her husband! Perhaps some one," continued Donna Dolores, embarrassedly, with the colour struggling through her copper cheek, "some--one--who--did--not--believe that the real Grace Conroy was dead or missing!" "Suppose the devil!--I beg your pardon. But people don't forge documents in the interests of humanity and justice. And why should it be given to _you_?"