"Alt exalted--restored to favor--Jack reformed character--born again--forger forgot--forging ahead, eh?" It was his best Mr. Jingle manner; indeed, a wonderfully ready and ruthless travesty of his own performance on the night of Dollar's arrival. And that kindred critic enjoyed it none the less for a second strain of irony, which he could not but take to himself. "I have not forgot anybody, Mr. Scarth." "But have you discovered who did the forgery?" "I always knew." "Have you tackled him?" "Days ago!" Scarth looked astounded. "And what's to happen to him, doctor?" "I don't know." The doctor gave a characteristic shrug. "It's not my job; as it was, I'd done all the detective business, which I loathe." "I remember," cried Scarth. "I shall never forget the way you went through that prescription, as though you had been looking over the blighter's shoulder! Not an expert--modest fellow--pride that apes!" And again Dollar had to laugh at the way Mr. Jingle wagged his head, in spite of the same slightly caustic undercurrent as before. "That was the easiest part of it," he answered, "although you make me blush to say so. The hard part was what reviewers of novels call the 'motivation.'" "But you had that in Schickel's spite against Alt." "It was never quite strong enough to please me." "Then what was the motive, doctor?" "Young Laverick's death." "Nonsense!" "I wish it were, Mr. Scarth." "But who is there in Winterwald who could wish to compass such a thing?" "There were more than two thousand visitors over Christmas, I understand," was the only reply. It would not do for Mostyn Scarth. He looked less than politely incredulous, if not less shocked and rather more indignant than he need have looked. But the whole idea was a reflection upon his care of the unhappy youth. And he said so in other words, which resembled those of Mr. Jingle only in their stiff staccato brevity. "Talk about 'motivation'!--I thank you, doctor, for that word--but I should thank you even more to show me the thing itself in your theory. And what a way to kill a fellow! What a roundabout, risky way!" "It was such a good forgery," observed the doctor, "that even Alt himself could hardly swear that it was one." "Is _he_ your man?" asked Scarth, in a sudden whisper, leaning forward with lighted eyes. The crime doctor smiled enigmatically. "It's perhaps just as lucky for him, Scarth, that at least he could have had nothing to do with the second attempt upon his patient's life." "What second attempt?" "The hand that forged the prescription, Scarth, with intent to poison young Laverick, was the one that also filed the flaw in his toboggan, in the hope of breaking his neck." "My dear doctor," exclaimed Mostyn Scarth, with a pained shake of the head, "this is stark, staring madness!"