Near the bottles lay a rod of glass with a curious tip, an ink eraser made of finely spun glass threads which scraped away the surface of the paper more delicately than any other tool that had been devised.

There were the materials for his, their rehabilitation if they were placed in his wife's deft artist fingers.

Here was all the chemistry and artistry of forgery at hand.
"Yes," he answered eagerly, "there is a way, Constance.

Together we can do it." There was no time for tenderness between them now.

It was cold, hard fact and they understood each other too well to stop for endearments.
Far into the night they sat up and discussed the way in which they would go about the crime.