“I’ve been to the British museum—there are many of his letters there. I’ve obtained permission to see them, and I’ve compared everything carefully. I repudiate the possibility of forgery. No sign of genuineness is wanting; there are details, down to the very postmarks, that no forger could have invented. Besides, whose interest could it conceivably have been? A labor of unspeakable difficulty, and all for what advantage? There are so many letters, too—twenty-seven in all.” “Lord, what an ass!” Mr. Locket exclaimed. “It will be one of the strangest post-mortem revelations of which history preserves the record.” Mr. Locket, grave now, worried with a paper-knife the crevice of a drawer. “It’s very odd. But to be worth anything such documents should be subjected to a searching criticism—I mean of the historical kind.” “Certainly; that would be the task of the writer introducing them to the public.” Again Mr. Locket considered; then with a smile he looked up. “You had better give up original composition and take to buying old furniture.” “Do you mean because it will pay better?” “For you, I should think, original composition couldn’t pay worse. The creative faculty’s so rare.” “I do feel tempted to turn my attention to real heroes,” Peter replied. “I’m bound to declare that Sir Dominick Ferrand was never one of mine. Flashy, crafty, second-rate—that’s how I’ve always read him. It was never a secret, moreover, that his private life had its weak spots. He was a mere flash in the pan.” “He speaks to the people of this country,” said Baron. “He did; but his voice—the voice, I mean, of his prestige—is scarcely audible now.”