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.

This literary sensitiveness at such a moment seemed little short of puerility to the man of business.
"From the way things pointed in New York," continued Stacy, "and from private advices received, this seems to be the only prudent course before the feathers begin to fly.