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.
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