“Come to the point,” says I.  “What did he do?  In a business way, what did he do?”

“He put the false bill into the fire, drew a bill of his own to replace it, and then—­only then—­told my dear girl and her mother all that had happened.  Can you imagine anything nobler?” asks Mr. Frank.

“Speaking in my professional capacity, I can’t imagine anything greener,” says I.  “Where was the father?  Off, I suppose?”

“Ill in bed,” says Mr. Frank, coloring.  “But he mustered strength enough to write a contrite and grateful letter the same day, promising to prove himself worthy of the noble moderation and forgiveness extended to him, by selling off everything he possessed to repay his money debt.  He did sell off everything, down to some old family pictures that were heirlooms; down to the little plate he had; down to the very tables and chairs that furnished his drawing-room.  Every farthing of the debt was paid; and he was left to begin the world again, with the kindest promises of help from the generous man who had forgiven him.  It was too late.  His crime of one rash moment—­atoned for though it had been—­preyed upon his mind.  He became possessed with the idea that he had lowered himself forever in the estimation of his wife and daughter, and—­”

“He died,” I cut in.  “Yes, yes, we know that.  Let’s go back for a minute to the contrite and grateful letter that he wrote.  My experience in the law, Mr. Frank, has convinced me that if everybody burned everybody else’s letters, half the courts of justice in this country might shut up shop.  Do you happen to know whether the letter we are now speaking of contained anything like an avowal or confession of the forgery?”

“Of course it did,” says he.  “Could the writer express his contrition properly without making some such confession?”

“Quite easy, if he had been a lawyer,” says I.  “But never mind that; I’m going to make a guess—­a desperate guess, mind.  Should I be altogether in error if I thought that this letter had been stolen; and that the fingers of Mr. Davager, of suspicious commercial celebrity, might possibly be the fingers which took it?”

“That is exactly what I wanted to make you understand,” cried Mr. Frank.

“How did he communicate the interesting fact of the theft to you?”

“He has not ventured into my presence.  The scoundrel actually had the audacity—­”

“Aha!” says I.  “The young lady herself!  Sharp practitioner, Mr. Davager.”

“Early this morning, when she was walking alone in the shrubbery,” Mr. Frank goes on, “he had the assurance to approach her, and to say that he had been watching his opportunity of getting a private interview for days past.  He then showed her—­actually showed her—­her unfortunate father’s letter; put into her hands another letter directed to me; bowed, and walked off; leaving her half dead with astonishment and terror.  If I had only happened to be there at the time!” says Mr. Frank, shaking his fist murderously in the air, by way of a finish.