When the reading was finished, and Alden was waiting, Durgan was loth to speak. He felt a curious sense of helplessness. Why had these particular letters been kept? Was it to incriminate Charlton Beardsley or to exculpate him? The period of the letters was well chosen with reference to the crime, but how had his wife been able to foresee a month before the murder that she might want to produce the notes of that date? Then arose a question of much greater interest to Durgan. The Beardsley revealed in these letters was, as he had always believed, the last man to attract Mrs. Durgan. If innocent, he appeared to be a simple-minded, uneducated enthusiast in bad health and liable to fits. If guilty, there was still less reason why a woman whose motive was always selfish, and whose aim was ambitious, should compromise herself by befriending him. "What do you think of these letters?" asked Durgan impatiently. Alden gave a little genteel snort of anger and annoyance. He looked towards the stairs and spoke in a low voice. "I confide in you, Mr. Durgan. In confidence, I may say I am confounded. The world has said that this was an extraordinary case, and that without knowing this latest and most baffling development. I confess I am confounded." "But you will have some theory about them?" "The only thing they prove is that someone has thought it worth while to try to deceive someone else; and I should think--pardon me--that the agent in the matter is Mrs. Durgan. This is her writing, is it not?" "Yes." "Beardsley's letters are all forgeries except one." Durgan took back the letters to seek evidence of forgery. His hand trembled. "Don't you see which is the genuine one?" asked Alden. Durgan did not see until it was pointed out to him that the letter which contained the erasure differed from the rest in displaying some peculiarities of crude handwriting which were more or less successfully copied, but exaggerated, in the others which bore his supposed signature. "Do you agree with me that my wife's are genuine?" asked Durgan haughtily. "I have no reason to suppose otherwise. They are all in the same hand, but I think----" "Go on," said Durgan. "I think they were not written at the dates given, but were composed to make up this series." "Do you suppose, then, that my wife is the author of these Beardsley forgeries?" "I cannot tell. If they were written in Beardsley's interest, why did he not write them himself? But if not in his interest, whoever forged them must have done it at her bidding."