“From the way things pointed in New York,” continued Stacy, “and from private advices received, this seems to be the only prudent course before the feathers begin to fly. Longing to see you again and the dear old stamping-ground at Heavy Tree. Love to Barker. Has the dear old boy been at any fresh crank lately? “Yours, PHIL DEMOREST.” The dictation and copy finished together. Demorest laid the freshly written sheet beside the letter Stacy had produced. They were very much alike and yet quite distinct from each other. Only the signature seemed identical. “That's the invariable mistake with the forger,” said Demorest; “he always forgets that signatures ought to be identical with the text rather than with each other.” But Stacy did not seem to hear this or require further proof. His face was quite gray and his lips compressed until lost in his closely set beard as he gazed fixedly out of the window. For the first time, really concerned and touched, Demorest laid his hand gently on his shoulder. “Tell me, Jim, how much does this mean to you apart from me? Don't think of me.” “I don't know yet,” said Stacy slowly. “That's the trouble. And I won't know until I know who's at the bottom of it. Does anybody know of your affairs with me?” “No one.” “No confidential friend, eh?” “None.” “No one who has access to your secrets? No--no--woman? Excuse me, Phil,” he said, as a peculiar look passed over Demorest's face, “but this is business.” “No,” he returned, with that gentleness that used to frighten them in the old days, “it's ignorance. You fellows always say 'Cherchez la femme' when you can't say anything else. Come now,” he went on more brightly, “look at the letter. Here's a man, commercially educated, for he has used the usual business formulas, 'on receipt of this,' and 'advices received,' which I won't merely say I don't use, but which few but commercial men use. Next, here's a man who uses slang, not only ineptly, but artificially, to give the letter the easy, familiar turn it hasn't from beginning to end. I need only say, my dear Stacy, that I don't write slang to you, but that nobody who understands slang ever writes it in that way. And then the knowledge of my opinion of Barker is such as might be gained from the reading of my letters by a person who couldn't comprehend my feelings. Now, let me play inquisitor for a few moments. Has anybody access to my letters to YOU?” “No one. I keep them locked up in a cabinet. I only make memorandums of your instructions, which I give to my clerks, but never your letters.” “But your clerks sometimes see you make memorandums from them?” “Yes, but none of them have the ability to do this sort of thing, nor the opportunity of profiting by it.”