Mr. Chewkle glanced at Mr. Grahame and at Whelks; he had a pressing occasion for a few pounds; but though he had quite made up his mind to ask for and have a sum, and indeed in a private self-communion on his way thither that morning, he had composed the conversation which was to take place between himself and Mr. Grahame, and which was to terminate in a princely act of munificence towards him on the part of the latter personage, he found himself sneaking out, treading tip-toe on the shadow of Whelks, without having uttered a word or having obtained a penny. The princely act of munificence did not come off upon this occasion, but he promised himself that before long it should; and, ere he was out of the house, he had flung his friendship for Grahame to the winds, and had carved for himself an antagonistic attitude, in which he played the part of one who, having in his possession a dreadful secret, by which the safety of another is compromised, makes money by it frequently. As the door closed upon him, Mr. Grahame turned a fitful gaze in that direction, and quickly, but silently, turned the key in the lock. Then he paced up and down the library, almost convulsed by a fierce, mental struggle. He pressed his burning palm upon his aching forehead, and muttered rapidly and wildly-- “It must be done now; there is no escape--no escape--none--retreat is utterly impossible, and the advance must be swift, or, in spite of crime, utter crushing ruin must be the result. No; there is no stopping now. That forgery is useless, worthless, while he lives to prove it what it is. But how dispose of him without having any apparent connection with his death? Let me see! I must have no accomplice. I already have one too many; he will be a thorn in my side, I can see that; but there is time enough to think of the plan by which I shall get rid of him. But this Wilton; he must die, and that immediately. Yes, he must die! he must die! or I perish! but how to kill him--how? how?” He threw himself in his chair, and racked his brain for a device by which to accomplish his devilish purpose without compromising himself. But as he did so, the magnitude of the crime he proposed to effect was not lost upon him. He felt that his face was livid, his hands cold and clammy, while drops of icy sweat trickled from his temples on to his cheek bones. His teeth, too, chattered, and his limbs trembled, as though he had been suddenly nipped by a frost. Some hours elapsed before his torturing reverie terminated--even then he had only an indistinct notion of the course which he calculated upon, as the best to be adopted. The vulgar modes of knife or poison, he foresaw could not be employed by him, because he would have to be connected, however remotely, with the deed; and how to accomplish his design without the aid of one or the other, was a problem harder for him to work out than the most difficult in the “first four books” to an indifferent mathematician.