'You are so persistent, Elsie, that I am certain you have got something serious on your mind--won't you tell me?'

'No, George--not to-night. But--how long has Athelstan been in England?'

'I will tell you exactly how and when I met him. Do you remember three weeks ago, that Sunday evening when we were so happy and so miserable--resolved on braving everything--going to live on love and a crust for the rest of our lives?--you poor, dear, brave girl!' He touched her fingers. 'I shall always be thankful for that prospect of poverty, because it revealed my mistress to me in all her loveliness of love and trust and courage.'

'Oh, George--you spoil me. But then I know myself better.'

'Well--on that evening we went to Church together; and after Church, as I was not allowed in the house, we walked round and round the Square until the rain came on, and we had to go home. Well, you did not take any notice; but as you stood on the steps waiting for the door to be opened, a man was standing on the kerb under the lamp close by. When the door was shut behind you, I turned and walked away. This man followed me and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Athelstan.'

'And I saw him and did not know him!'

'He has grown a big beard now, and wore a felt hat. He is a picturesque object to look at. Ought to have been one of Drake's men. I daresay he was in a former existence. He had then been in England exactly a week, and every day he had prowled about the place in the hope of seeing you--not speaking to you--he trusted that you would not know him again.'

'Oh, poor Athelstan! That is nearly three weeks ago. He has been in England four weeks--a month--and three--four--five months ago--where was he?'

'I told you. In California.'

'Oh! then he could not--possibly--not possibly--and it can be proved--and oh! George--George--I am so glad--I am so glad.' She showed her joy by a light shower of tears.

'Why, my dear,' he said, soothing her, 'why are you so troubled and yet so glad?'

'You don't quite understand, George. You don't know the things that are said. All these forgeries are in the same handwriting.'

'Certainly.'

'One man has written all these letters and cheques and things--both that of eight years ago and those of last March?'

'That is perfectly certain.'

'Then, don't you see? Athelstan was out of England when these newly-discovered forgeries were done. Therefore, he had no hand in them.

Therefore, again, he could have had no hand in the earlier one. Why--you establish his innocence perfectly. Now you see one of the reasons why I was so glad.'

The other reason--that this fact destroyed at one blow the whole of the splendid edifice constructed upon the alleged stay of Athelstan in London--Elsie concealed. Her heart, it must be acknowledged, was lightened. You may have the most complete belief in the innocence of a person, but it is well to have the belief strengthened by facts.

'As for me,' said George, 'I have been so long accustomed to regard him as one of the worst used of men, that I never thought of that conclusion. Of course, if the handwriting is the same, and it certainly seems the same--a very good imitation of Mr. Dering's hand--there is nothing now to be said. Athelstan was in California in the spring. That settles it. And the notes were in the safe. Two clinchers. But to some minds a suspicion is a charge, and a charge is a fact.'

'George, you must take me to Athelstan. Give me his address.'

'He is in lodgings in Half Moon Street. I will ask him if he will meet you.'

'No--no; let me go to him. It is more fitting. You will see him presently. Will you tell him that I will call upon him to-morrow morning at eleven? And tell him, George, that something has happened--something that makes it impossible for me to remain at home--even for the short time before our wedding.'

'Elsie! this is very serious.'

'Yes, it is very serious. Tell him that I shall ask him to receive me until the wedding, or until certain things have happened.--But in any case--oh! they must happen so--they must--it is too absurd.'

'Elsie, my dear, you grow interjectional.'

'Yes--yes. I mean, George, that if things turn out as I hope they may, I will go home again. If not, we will be married from Athelstan's lodgings.'

'And you will not tell me what this terrible business is?'

'Not to-night, George,' she repeated. 'It is very serious, and it makes me very unhappy that my mother and sister----'

'It is something to do with me, Elsie, clearly. Never mind. You will tell me when you please. Whatever you do is sure to be right. I will see him this evening.'

'Thank you, George. I think that what I propose is the wisest thing to do. Besides, I want to be with you and Athelstan. Tell him that as he left the house eight years ago I leave it now.'

'You? Why, my dear child, what forgeries have you been committing?'

'None. And yet---- Well, George, that is enough about me and my troubles. Tell me now about your search into this business. How have you got on?'

'There is nothing new to report. I told you that I left a note on Edmund Gray's table. No answer has come to that. The Bank has written to tell him that his letter of introduction was a forgery. No answer. The dividends are acc.u.mulating: he draws no cheques: he makes no sign. In a word, though this money is lying to his credit, and the shares are transferred to his name, and the letters give his address, there is nothing whatever to convict the man himself. We could not prove his signature, and he has taken none of the money. He might call any day and say that he knew nothing about it. I wonder he hasn't done it. When he does, we shall just have to put everything straight again. As for poor old Checkley, I really believe that he is going mad. If I meet him he glares; if he is in his master's room, his eyes follow me about under his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows with a malignity which I have never seen painted. As for being described, words couldn't do it. I suppose he sees that the end is inevitable. Really, Elsie, the man would murder me if he dared.'

'The man is dangerous, George, as well as malignant. But I think he will do you no harm in the long run. Have you told Athelstan what is going on?'

'Certainly. He follows the business with the greatest interest. He agrees with me that the thing is done out of the office with the help of some one in it. Now, the point is, that the man in the office must have the control of the post. All the letters must pa.s.s through his hands.

'Who is that man? No one but Checkley. Everything turns on that. Now, here is a lucky accident. An old friend of Athelstan's, a man who coaches, has Chambers on the same stairs and on the same floor. He knows this Mr. Edmund Gray. We have been to his rooms to question him.'

'Is it to see this old friend that Athelstan visits No. 22?'

'Yes. His name is Carstone--commonly called Freddy Carstone--a pleasing man, with a little weakness, which seems to endear him to his friends.'

'This is the way in which things get distorted in a malignant mind!

Well. What did this gentleman tell you about this mysterious Edmund Gray?'

'Nothing definite. That he is some kind of Socialist we knew before: that he has occupied the Chambers for ten years or so we knew before.

Also, that he is an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect. And that he is irregular in his visits to his Chambers. We seem to get no further.

We see Checkley coming out of the house. That connects him, to be sure.

But that is not much. There is no connection established between Edmund Gray and the forgeries in his name. Nor between Checkley and the forgeries. One feels that if one could lay hold of this mysterious elderly gentleman, a real step in advance would be taken.'

'You talked at first of arresting him on the charge.'

'Well--there is no evidence. His name has been used--that is all. On that evidence no magistrate would issue a warrant. Sometimes one's head goes round with the bewilderment of it. I've managed to learn something about Checkley in the course of these inquiries. He is quite a great man, Elsie; a tavern oracle in the evening; a landlord and householder and collector of his own rents at odd hours; a capitalist and a miser.

But he is not, as thought at first--Edmund Gray.'

They had by this time got round to the house again. 'Go, now, George,'

said Elsie. 'See Athelstan this evening. Tell him that I must go to him.

I will tell him why to-morrow.'

'If he is not at his club I will go to his lodgings. If he is not there I will wait till he comes home. And before I go home I will drop a note for you.--Good-night, sweetheart--good-night.'

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PRODIGAL AT HOME