He did not answer for a moment. He asked instead a number of questions about Boyde, listening closely to my account of him, which mentioned the good with the bad. He went down to examine the packing-case and returned with the report that my cheque-book was not there. I asked him again what he made of it all, waiting with nervous anxiety for his verdict, but again he put me off. He wanted to know when I last heard from Kay. Eight days ago, I told him, from Toronto. He asked numerous questions. He seemed as puzzled as I was. “What do you think it means?” I begged. “What’s he been doing?” “Are you _quite_ positive it’s not Kay’s writing,” he urged, “even, for instance, if he was--” he hesitated--“a bit tight at the time?” I clung to the faint hope. “Well, of course--I really couldn’t say. I’ve never seen his writing when he was tight. I suppose----” “Because if it isn’t,” interrupted Grant decisively, “it means that Boyde has been getting money from him and using it for himself.” I realized then that he was trying to make things less grave than they really were, trying to make it easier for me in the best way he could. The torn-up cheque proved his suggestion foolish. “Do you think he’s an absolute scoundrel?” I asked point blank, unable to bear the suspense any longer. “Really a criminal--is he?” “I wanted to tell you the other day,” he said quickly. “Only you were too ill. I thought it would upset you.” “Criminal? Tell me at once. He may be in any minute. I must know.” “His reputation is bad,” was the reply, “as bad as it could be. I’ve heard things about him. He’s already been in gaol. He’s supposed to be a bit dangerous.” I was listening for the sound of a step on the stairs. I lowered my voice a little. It was clear to me that Grant did not want to tell me all he knew. “So--what do you make, then, of this?” I asked in a half whisper, pointing to the documents. He looked at me hard a moment, then gave his reply, also in an undertone: “Practising--I think.” I did not understand him. The uncertainty of his meaning, the queer suggestion in the word he used, gave my imagination a horrid twist. I asked again, my heart banging against my ribs: “Practising--what?” “He didn’t think it a successful--copy--so he tore it up,” Grant explained. “You mean--forgery?” “I think so. That is--I’m afraid so.” I think the universe changed for me in that moment; something I had been standing on for years collapsed; I was left hanging in space without a platform, without a rudder. An odd helplessness came over me. Grant, of course, had only confirmed my own suspicions, had merely put into words what, actually, I had known for a long time; but it was just this hearing the verdict spoken by another that hurt so abominably. Grant had quietly torn off me the last veil of self-deception. I could no longer pretend to myself. It seems absurdly out of proportion now on looking back; at the time the shock was appalling.