His train of thought having conducted him to this point, the fact that he had Chewkle locked up in the small ante-chamber overlooking the park, presented itself. Had the man overheard what had transpired between him and Nathan Gomer? A flush of heat crossed his brow at the supposition. For the moment he forgot all the dictates of his pride, lost utterly his austere bearing, and crept on tip-toe to the door of the little chamber. He softly removed the key, and peered through the keyhole, but without catching sight of Mr. Chewkle. He replaced the key without a sound, and turning the well-oiled lock noiselessly, he flung the door open suddenly. Mr. Chewkle, with his arms folded, was standing in a contemplative attitude, gazing out of the window, and watching the sportive movements of some wild fowl upon the lake. “Hem! a--Mr. Chewkle, I am at liberty now!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, recovering his pompous manner, and feeling convinced that his conference with Nathan Gomer had not been overheard by the commission agent. Mr. Chewkle professed himself to be quite ready to proceed to business, and begged Mr. Grahame, when he made apologies for detaining him while he transacted important matters, not to mention it. Indeed, there was no necessity, as Chewkle’s quick ear, applied in the right place, had heard every word that passed. “And so the poor old fool, Wilton, continues obstinate, does he?” exclaimed Grahame to Chewkle, when they were both seated.”’Ard as hadamant,” returned Mr. Chewkle. “He is only doing himself harm,” suggested Mr. Grahame. “And nobody else no good,” added Chewkle. “He certainly is not acting in a manner to entitle him to consideration,” observed Mr. Grahame, reflectively. “Not a bit of it,” responded Mr. Chewkle; “nothen is to be got out of ’is sort; you may as well try to get butter out o’ flint; so if I was you, sir, I should just say nothen to anybody--but me--and go an’ do it at once--now’s a good time--by-and-by never comes.” Mr. Grahame grew cold and white, and his teeth chattered. _FORGERY!_ It was a tremendous act. The punishment, penal servitude for life. How the words rang in his ears! A moment more, and the threat of Nathan Gomer boomed through his brain like the minute guns of a ship of war announcing an approaching execution. “Issue process for the recovery of the money now due.” He shivered as though he had come out of a cold spring bath. He placed his trembling fingers upon the handle of a drawer, and opened it. He turned over some papers, and drew forth a letter. It bore the signature, “E. Wilton,” in a bold hand. “There is his handwriting,” he said to Chewkle, in a hoarse voice, and with a sickly smile. “Bless my wig!” said Mr. Chewkle, as he gazed on it with admiring eyes. “A prime clear sort of writing.” He drew from his pocket a parchment. “What is that?” inquired Mr. Grahame, with chattering teeth.