"They did, Reggie, and my brain was in such a whirl that I could hardly read it. I said that I believed it was in your handwriting. It was certainly very like, although, as you can imagine, I looked at it through a sort of mist. Anyway, it was as like your handwriting as the dead man was like you." Davis ruminated for a few moments. "That letter was forged by somebody who knew me and could imitate my hand to a nicety. I am thinking of all the wrong 'uns I knew in the old days. I think I can fix him." "Yes," said Mrs Masters breathlessly. She was capable of great daring in the cause and the service of those she loved, but she was not habituated to the ways of hardened criminals. "A man I was a bit associated with in the old days; luckily he didn't drag me in far enough. He was an expert forger. We used to call him `George the Penman.'" Mrs Masters shuddered. "Oh, you poor weak soul, you were so near it as that?" "Very near, Carrie. The shock of the false accusation of murder pulled me up straight. I saw where I was drifting, and made up my mind that the straight path was the surest." At the moment that Mr Davis gave utterance to this honourable sentiment there was a ring at the bell. Mrs Masters rose at once. "It is Iris. I dropped her a note to say you were coming. She will be so pleased to see you." There floated into the small sitting-room a very dainty and ethereal figure, Miss Iris Deane, a charming member of the chorus at the Frivolity Theatre. She flung her arms round the neck of her handsome brother. "Oh Reggie, dear, what a treat to see you! And all this dreadful thing is lifted from you." Iris was not his favourite sister. She was clever in a worldly way, and had made good. But she had not the sterling loyalty of Caroline. Davis gently checked her enthusiasm. "And how have you been getting on, Iris? Always floating on the top as usual?" Miss Iris showed her dimples. "Always floating on the top, as you say, dear old boy. A silly, soft chap fell in love with me; wrote most impassioned love-letters. Well, he was too soppy for me to care much about him, and when his rich brother came along, offering me a price for his love-letters, I can tell you I just jumped at the chance." "Did you get a good price?" queried her brother. "I stuck out for ten thousand," explained the capable Iris; "but this chap was a good bargainer, and I let them go at seven. It was better on the whole. If I had married Roddie, I should have been so fed-up in a month that I should have run away from him, and then Heaven knows where I might have ended." Davis looked at his sister approvingly. There was enough of the old Adam left in him to entertain a slight envy of his sister's chances. Seven thousand pounds, a little fortune in itself, was a good bit of work, a handsome reward for the display of her dimples.