“By all means,” said Demorest, with a smile, settling down into his chair a little wearily, however. “I forgot business. And I forgot, my dear Jim, to congratulate you. I've heard all about you, even in New York. You're the man who, according to everybody, now holds the finances of the Pacific Slope in his hands. And,” he added, leaning affectionately towards his old partner, “I don't know any one better equipped in honesty, straightforwardness, and courage for such a responsibility than you.” “I only wish,” said Stacy, looking thoughtfully at Demorest, “that I didn't hold nearly a million of your money included in the finances of the Pacific Slope.” “Why,” said the smiling Demorest, “as long as I am satisfied?” “Because I am not. If you're satisfied, I'm a wretched idiot and not fit for my position. Now, look here, Phil. When you wrote me to sell out your shares in the Wheat Trust I was a little staggered. I knew your gait, my boy, and I knew, too, that, while you didn't know enough to trust your own opinions or feeling, you knew too much to trust any one's opinion that wasn't first-class. So I reckoned you had the straight tip; but I didn't see it. Now, I ought not to have been staggered if I was fit for your confidence, or, if I was staggered, I ought to have had enough confidence in myself not to mind you. See?” “I admit your logic, old man,” said Demorest, with an amused face, “but I don't see your premises. WHEN did I tell you to sell out?” “Two days ago. You wrote just after you arrived.” “I have never written to you since I arrived. I only telegraphed to you to know where we should meet, and received your message to come here.” “You never wrote me from San Francisco?” “Never.” Stacy looked concernedly at his friend. Was he in his right mind? He had heard of cases where melancholy brooding on a fixed idea had affected the memory. He took from his pocket a letter-case, and selecting a letter handed it to Demorest without speaking. Demorest glanced at it, turned it over, read its contents, and in a grave voice said, “There is something wrong here. It is like my handwriting, but I never wrote the letter, nor has it been in my hand before.” Stacy sprang to his side. “Then it's a forgery!” “Wait a moment.” Demorest, who, although very grave, was the more collected of the two, went to a writing-desk, selected a sheet of paper, and took up a pen. “Now,” he said, “dictate that letter to me.” Stacy began, Demorest's pen rapidly following him:-- “DEAR JIM,--On receipt of this get rid of my Wheat Trust shares at whatever figure you can. From the way things pointed in New York”-- “Stop!” interrupted Demorest. “Well?” said Stacy impatiently. “Now, my dear Jim,” said Demorest plaintively, “when did you ever know me to write such a sentence as 'the way things pointed'?” “Let me finish reading,” said Stacy. This literary sensitiveness at such a moment seemed little short of puerility to the man of business.