The next morning, in Arthur’s study, a retired probate judge named Edward Vance — a cousin of Arthur’s, and a man of famous rigor — examined my mother’s signature under a magnifying glass, in silence, for a very long time.

“The signature,” he said at last, “is completely authentic.

There is no doubt.

Your mother truly signed this page.” He set down the glass.

“But the document attached to it is an absolute forgery.

These two things do not belong together.