Garvey at once took them from him, and after
turning over a few pages he stopped and cut out a piece of writing at
the bottom of the last sheet but one.
Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words "Joel Garvey" in faded
ink.
"There! That's my signature," he said, "and I've cut it out. It must be
nearly twenty years since I wrote it, and now I'm going to burn it."
He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper,
and while he watched it being consumed Shorthouse put the real papers in
his pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag. Garvey turned
just in time to see this latter movement.
"I'm putting the papers back," Shorthouse said quietly; "you've done
with them, I think."
"Certainly," he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blue
envelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn the
key. "They no longer have the slightest interest for me." As he spoke he
moved over to the sideboard, and pouring himself out a small glass of
whisky asked his visitor if he might do the same for him. But the
visitor declined and was already putting on his overcoat when Garvey
turned with genuine surprise on his face.
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