looking over the
document--at least, the clerk had just begun to wonder if he was
reading through the whole of it, instead of merely looking at the
signature, when Mr Bradshaw said: "It is possible that it may be--of
course, you will allow me to take this paper to Mr Benson, to--to
inquire if this be his signature?"

"There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir," said the clerk, calmly
smiling, for he knew Mr Benson's signature well.

"I don't know, sir--I don't know." (He was speaking as if the
pronunciation of every word required a separate effort of will, like
a man who has received a slight paralytic stroke.)

"You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery--forgery, sir?" said
he, repeating the last word very distinctly; for he feared that the
first time he had said it, it was rather slurred over.

"Oh, sir! there is no room for imagining such a thing, I assure you.
In our affairs we become aware of curious forgetfulness on the part
of those who are not of business habits."

"Still I should like to show it Mr Benson, to prove to him his
forgetfulness, you know. I believe, on my soul, it is some of his
careless forgetfulness--I do, sir," said he. Now he spoke very
quickly. "It must have been. Allow me to convince myself. You shall
have it back to-night, or the first thing in the morning."

The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor yet did
he like to refuse Mr Bradshaw. If that very uncomfortable idea of
forgery should have any foundation in truth--and he had given up
the writing! There were a thousand chances to one against its being
anything but a stupid blunder; the risk was more imminent of
offending one of the directors.

As he hesitated, Mr Bradshaw spoke, very calmly, and almost with
a smile on his face. He had regained his self-command. "You are
afraid, I see. I assure you, you may trust me. If there has been any
fraud--if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise
I threw out just now,"--he could not quite speak the bare naked word
that was chilling his heart--"I will not fail to aid the ends of
justice, even though the culprit should be my own son."

He ended, as he began, with a smile--such a smile!--the stiff lips
refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the time he kept saying
to himself:

"I don't believe it--I don't believe it. I'm convinced it's a blunder
of that old fool Benson."

But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of paper,
he