The man who could do it, if he would, was
in the house at that moment, and Montevarchi knew it. Arnoldo
Meschini, the shrivelled little secretary and librarian, who had a
profound knowledge of the law and spent his days as well as most
of his nights in poring over crabbed manuscripts, was the very
person for such a piece of work. He understood the smallest
variations in handwriting which belonged to different periods, and
the minutest details of old-fashioned penmanship were as familiar
to him as the common alphabet. But would he do it? Would he
undertake the responsibility of a forgery of which the success
would produce such tremendous responsibilities, of which the
failure would involve such awful disgrace? Montevarchi had reasons
of his own for believing that Arnoldo Meschini would do anything
he was ordered to do, and would moreover keep the secret
faithfully. Indeed, as far as discretion was concerned, he would,
in case of exposure, have to bear the penalty. Montevarchi would
arrange that. If discovered it would be easy for him to pretend
that being unable to read the manuscript he had employed his
secretary to do so, and that the latter, in the hope of reward,
had gratuitously imposed upon the prince and the courts of law
before whom the case would be tried.
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