THE AMERICAN
garde's eyes had a pale irrepressible eagerness; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it. There was a silence during which he took it in. He had more than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood looking at it hard. "Where's the original?" his mother meantime asked in a voice of the most disinterested curiosity.
"In a very safe place. Of course I can't show you that," Newman went on—"a treasure the value of which makes it sacred to me. You might want to grab it," he added with conscious quaintness, "and I've too much other use for it. But this is a very correct copy—except of course the handwriting: I'll get it properly certified for you if you wish. That ought to suit you—its being properly certified."
The Marquis at last raised a countenance deeply and undisguisedly flushed. "It will require," he nevertheless lightly remarked, "a vast deal of certification!"
"Well," Newman returned, "we can always fall back on the original."
"I'm speaking," said the Marquis, "of the original."
"Ah, that, I think, will speak for itself. Still, we can easily get as many persons as possible—as many of those who knew the writer's hand—to speak for it. Think of the number it will interest—if I begin, myself, say, with the Duchess, that amiable, very stout lady whose name I forget, but who was pleasant to me at your party. She asked me to come to see her, and I've been thinking that in
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