“The author of these valentines,” said the Doctor, “is to be spotted, the way I diagnose the case, by his desire that professional people should be constantly giving away their services. He objects to the Doctor’s bill and he slaps sarcastically at the Lawyer because he doesn’t give advice. That’s why I[36] suspect the Idiot. He’s a professional Idiot, and yet he gives his idiocy away.”

“When did I ever give myself away?” demanded the Idiot. “You are talking wildly, Doctor. The idea of your trying to drag me into this thing is preposterous. Suppose you show down your valentine and see if it is in my handwriting.”

“Mine is typewritten,” said the Doctor.

“So is mine,” said the Bibliomaniac.

“Mine, too,” said the Poet.

“Same here,” said Mr. Brief.

“Well, then,” said the Idiot, “I’m willing to write a page in my own hand without any attempt to disguise it, and let any handwriting expert decide as to whether there is the slightest resemblance between my chirography and these typewritten sheets you hold in your hand.”

“That’s fair enough,” said Mr. Whitechoker.

“Besides,” persisted the Idiot, “I’ve received one of the things myself, and it’ll make your hair curl, if you’ve got any.[37] Typewritten like the rest of ’em. Shall I read it?”

By common consent the Idiot read the following: