But Clement was beginning to be angry. “Yes, sir,” he said. “That is our story, and it is true.” He thought that he had hit on the truth, and he clung to it. The Squire had signed and the next minute had forgotten the whole transaction—Clement had heard of such cases. “He had the transfer with him,” he continued, “signed by you and witnessed by himself and—and Miss Griffin. I saw it myself. I saw the signatures, and I have seen yours, sir, often enough on a cheque to know it. The transfer was perfectly in order.” “In whose favor, young man?” “Our brokers’, sir.” The Squire flared up. “I did not sign it!” he cried. “It’s a lie, sir! I signed nothing! Nothing!” But Josina intervened. She, poor girl, saw light. “Yes,” she said, “my father did sign something—on Saturday after dinner. But it was a lease. I and Arthur witnessed it.” “And what has that to do with it?” the Squire asked passionately. “What the devil has that to do with it? I signed a lease and—and a counterpart. I signed no transfer of stock, never put hand to it! Never! What has the lease to do with it?” But Josina was firm. “I am afraid I see now, sir,” she said. “You remember that you signed a paper to try your pen? And I signed it too, father, by mistake? You remember? Ah!”—with a gesture of despair—“if I had only not signed it!” The Squire groaned. He, too, saw it now. He saw it, and his head sank on his breast. “Forger as well as thief!” he muttered. “And a Griffin!” And Clement’s heart sank too as he met the girl’s anguished eyes and viewed the Squire’s bowed head and the shame and despair that clothed themselves in an apathy so unlike the man. He saw that here was a tragedy indeed, a tragedy fitly framed in that desolate room with its windows staring on the night and its air of catastrophe; a tragedy passing bank failures or the loss of fortune. And in his mind he cursed the offender. But even as the words rose to his lips, doubt stayed them. There was, there must be, some mistake. The thing could not be. He knew Arthur, he thought that he knew Arthur; he knew even the darker side of him—his selfishness, his lack of thought for others, his desire to get on and to grow rich. But this thing Arthur never could have done! Clement recalled his gay, smiling face, his frank bearing, his care-free eyes, the habit he had of casting back a lock from his brow. No, he could not have done this thing. “No, sir, no!” he cried impulsively. “There is some mistake! I swear there is! I am sure of it.” “You’ve the securities?” “Yes, but I am sure——”