'No--no; let me go to him. It is more fitting. You will see him presently. Will you tell him that I will call upon him to-morrow morning at eleven? And tell him, George, that something has happened--something that makes it impossible for me to remain at home--even for the short time before our wedding.' 'Elsie! this is very serious.' 'Yes, it is very serious. Tell him that I shall ask him to receive me until the wedding, or until certain things have happened.--But in any case--oh! they must happen so--they must--it is too absurd.' 'Elsie, my dear, you grow interjectional.' 'Yes--yes. I mean, George, that if things turn out as I hope they may, I will go home again. If not, we will be married from Athelstan's lodgings.' 'And you will not tell me what this terrible business is?' 'Not to-night, George,' she repeated. 'It is very serious, and it makes me very unhappy that my mother and sister----' 'It is something to do with me, Elsie, clearly. Never mind. You will tell me when you please. Whatever you do is sure to be right. I will see him this evening.' 'Thank you, George. I think that what I propose is the wisest thing to do. Besides, I want to be with you and Athelstan. Tell him that as he left the house eight years ago I leave it now.' 'You? Why, my dear child, what forgeries have you been committing?' 'None. And yet---- Well, George, that is enough about me and my troubles. Tell me now about your search into this business. How have you got on?' 'There is nothing new to report. I told you that I left a note on Edmund Gray's table. No answer has come to that. The Bank has written to tell him that his letter of introduction was a forgery. No answer. The dividends are accumulating: he draws no cheques: he makes no sign. In a word, though this money is lying to his credit, and the shares are transferred to his name, and the letters give his address, there is nothing whatever to convict the man himself. We could not prove his signature, and he has taken none of the money. He might call any day and say that he knew nothing about it. I wonder he hasn't done it. When he does, we shall just have to put everything straight again. As for poor old Checkley, I really believe that he is going mad. If I meet him he glares; if he is in his master's room, his eyes follow me about under his shaggy eyebrows with a malignity which I have never seen painted. As for being described, words couldn't do it. I suppose he sees that the end is inevitable. Really, Elsie, the man would murder me if he dared.' 'The man is dangerous, George, as well as malignant. But I think he will do you no harm in the long run. Have you told Athelstan what is going on?'