t the deed; and opening it, after a pause, in which you might have
counted five, he held it out to Mr Benson.

"Read it!" said he. He spoke not another word until time had been
allowed for its perusal. Then he added:

"That is your signature?" The words were an assertion, but the tone
was that of question.

"No, it is not," said Mr Benson, decidedly. "It is very like my
writing. I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not."

"Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the third of last
year, fourteen months ago. You may have forgotten it." The tone of
the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr Benson did not
notice,--he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing.

"It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed away
these shares--all the property I have--without the slightest
remembrance of it."

"Stranger things have happened. For the love of Heaven, think if you
did not sign it. It's a deed of transfer for those Insurance shares,
you see. You don't remember it? You did not write this name--these
words?" He looked at Mr Benson with craving wistfulness for one
particular answer. Mr Benson was struck at last by the whole
proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr Bradshaw, whose manner, gait,
and voice were so different from usual that he might well excite
attention. But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary
inspection, he changed his tone all at once.

"Don't imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a
remembrance. If you did not write this name, I know who did. Once
more I ask you,--does no glimmering recollection of--having needed
money, we'll say--I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to the
chapel, God knows!--of having sold these accursed shares?--Oh! I see
by your face you did not write it; you need not speak to me--I know."

He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure drooped. In a
moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr
Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man's agitation.

"You say you did not write these words?" pointing to the signature,
with an untrembling finger. "I believe you; Richard Bradshaw did
write them."

"My dear sir--my dear old friend!" exclaimed Mr Benson, "you are
rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no
foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because--"

"There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself--I am perfectly
calm." His stony