After a time I collected the two documents and pieced them together again between the pages of a book, lest someone might enter and discover them. The doctor was not coming that day, but there might be other visitors. Then it suddenly dawned on me--why hadn’t this occurred to me before?--that the whole thing must be a joke after all. Of course ... why not? It might even have something to do with the rôle of understudy in the Sothern Play. It could easily be--oh, surely!--a bit of stupid fun on Kay’s part. The carelessness too! Throwing the scraps in the basket under my very nose, where anybody could easily see them, where Mrs. Bernstein might find them, or the woman who came in twice a week to do the room. This was certainly against criminal intent. The most far-fetched explanations poured through my mind, invited by hope, dressed up by eager desire, then left hanging in mid-air, with not the faintest probability to support them. I deliberately recalled the kind actions, the solicitude, the sharing of receipts, a thousand favourable details, even to the innocent expression and the frank blue eyes, only to find these routed utterly by two other details; one negative, one vague, yet both insistent; the doctor’s silence and the shadow noticed recently on the sleeping face. It was eleven o’clock; Boyde had said he would return about four; I expected him, for the doctor, whom he avoided, was not coming. There were five hours of waiting to endure first. The situation which another might have tossed aside with a wry laugh at himself for having been a guileless fool, to me seemed portentous with pain and horror. I had no plan, however, when the door opened at half-past three, long before I expected it. There was in me no faintest idea of what I was going to say or do. The book lay on my knee, with the documents concealed between the pages. I had heard no footstep, the rattle of the handle was the first sound I caught. Yet the door opened differently--not quite as Boyde opened it. There was hesitation in the movement. In that hesitation of a mere second there again flashed across my mind a sudden happy certainty; the documents could be explained, it was all a joke somewhere. He had done nothing wrong, he would clear up the whole thing in a moment! Of course! It was my weak, feverish condition that had raised a bogey. A few words from him were now going to destroy it. Then, instead of Boyde, I saw Grant standing shyly on the threshold, the young actor who had pawned his overcoat. This time he wore it. The relief I felt at seeing him betrayed me to myself. I welcomed him so heartily that his shyness disappeared. He had dropped in by chance, he told me. I gave him an account of my discovery, and he bent over me to see the cheque and letter, asking if the writing was really Kay’s. He looked very grave. “It’s not unlike it, but it isn’t his,” I replied. “What do you make of it? Why are they torn up?” I was burning to hear what he thought.