Then he turned the paper over to Joe. “What of this?” asked that worthy. “There is nothing out of the way in it. I only had your wife write it out and sign her initials in order to compare it with the other document.” “Tell me about the other.” “I will reproduce it, word for word.” Drawing some paper to him he wrote rapidly for a few minutes. Then he placed the duplicate of Prescott’s letter in front of Joe. “This looks like a deep conspiracy, Eric—you say this was signed that way?” “Yes.” “Was it—in—her handwriting?” “There were enough points of resemblance to make it striking.” “Heavens!” and he beat his fist against his forehead in despair—then recovered his calmness after an effort. “You say you have lost this document?” “I had compared them in the elevated coming down here, and was still looking at that one when a hand was laid on my arm and a man asked me what I was doing with his property. I saw he was the owner and gave it over—we had a few words and separated.” “Was that man known to me?” “By sight, yes.” Joe shuddered visibly, as though he understood the suggestive words of the other. “Then it was _he_?” “Paul Prescott, the artist.” “Curses on him for a meddler! Lillian has a weakness for art, and I have often jokingly told her she should have married a painter.” “That explains his power in a measure—he has fed her on art and won her regard by posing as a hero.” Joe struck the duplicate paper fiercely. “Eric, you may think me crazy to doubt it, but unless Lillian declares in my presence that this is the product of her pen I will never believe it.” “Joe, my friend, I honor you for such a feeling, and I hope as I never hoped before in my life that this thing will prove a false alarm. All the same I shall do my duty by you every time, as a true friend.” “A thousand thanks. I feel fifty years old to-day instead of thirty-six—it is my birthday, you know, Eric,” with a sad smile. “I wish you many happy returns, my dear fellow—just three years younger than I am. I wish I had a gift to give you.” “The best gift this world could give me would be the proof that my wife is the true and faithful wife I have always believed her. Great heavens! Eric, when I think of it all, a spasm comes over me—my fingers twitch as though they would love to encircle the throat of that arch-devil and choke his life out.” Eric was surprised. He had not believed this of Joe, looking upon the other as a sort of good-natured giant whom any one could impose upon. Now he saw him angry he made up his mind that if ever Paul Prescott and Joe came in contact it would go hard with the artist. “Well, I declare, you will make a modern Othello yet, Joe.” “No, no,” with a shudder, “I might kill him, but I would never raise a finger against her if she deceived me time and again. I couldn’t; I must love her always.” Eric shrugged his shoulders.