went and locked the door, and laid his head on his desk, and
moaned aloud.

He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights; at first,
occupying himself in searching for the certificates of the Insurance
shares; but, when all the boxes and other repositories for papers had
been ransacked, the thought took hold of him that they might be in
Richard's private desk; and, with the determination which overlooks
the means to get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on
the complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows
of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand. He did not find the
certificates. Richard had always considered himself careful in
destroying any dangerous or tell-tale papers; but the stern father
found enough, in what remained, to convince him that his pattern
son--more even than his pattern son, his beloved pride--was far other
than what he seemed.

Mr Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did not shrink while he
read. He folded up letter by letter; he snuffed the candle just when
its light began to wane, and no sooner; but he did not miss or omit
one paper--he read every word. Then, leaving the letters in a heap
upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its own tale, he locked
the door of the room which was appropriated to his son as junior
partner, and carried the key away with him.

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many
circumstances of Richard's life which shocked and dismayed his
father--there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of
forgery--that it might be no forgery after all--only a blunder--an
omission--a stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one
straw that Mr Bradshaw clung to.

Late that night Mr Benson sat in his study. Every one else in the
house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to someone
who was dangerously ill. He was not startled, therefore, at the
knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was rather
surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a
pause between each rap. His study-door was but a step from that which
led into the street. He opened it, and there stood--Mr Bradshaw; his
large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night.

He said, "That is right. It was you I wanted to see." And he walked
straight into the study. Mr Benson followed, and shut the door. Mr
Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled
ou