‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’ ‘I have seen it.’ ‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’ ‘I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.’ Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed. ‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’ ‘But the impression on the blotter?’ ‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.’ ‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Some one must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?’ ‘I don’t know. Nobody--or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?’ ‘It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned to London, after the dinner.’ ‘Any one could have got into the house while I was away. If what you say is true, some one must have, but I saw no traces.’ ‘Now, Mr. Felix, who is Emmie?’ Felix stared. ‘Emmie?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. Emmie what?’ Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied,-- ‘Your heartbroken Emmie.’ ‘My dear Mr. Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. ‘Your heartbroken Emmie?’ What under the sun do you mean?’ ‘It should be clear enough, Mr. Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself, “Your heartbroken Emmie”?’ Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement. ‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from any one signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.’ ‘Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?’ The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented. ‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’