'Oh! that is only Elsie's enthusiastic way. She will go on, if she likes, believing that George had nothing to do with it. He will have every inducement to live honestly for the future. We can easily pretend to believe that Athelstan was always innocent, and we can persuade him--at least I hope we can persuade him--to go abroad. Sir Samuel kindly says that he will advance a hundred pounds in order to get rid of him. Then there will be no scandal, and everybody will be satisfied. As for our relations with Elsie and her husband, we can arrange them afterwards. Perhaps they will agree to live in a distant suburb--say Redhill, or Chislehurst, or Walthamstow--so that there may be a good excuse for never having them to the house. Because--smothering or no smothering--I can no longer have the same feelings towards Elsie as before. Her obstinate infatuation for that man exasperates me only to think of it. Nor have I the least intention of being on intimate relations with a forger who has only just escaped being a convict. Sir Samuel entirely agrees with me.' The mother sighed. 'I could have wished that we were mistaken. Perhaps, after all, there may be something that Elsie has found out, some unexpected----' 'Say a miracle at once, my dear mother. It is just as likely to happen.' * * * * * The first to arrive at the office in the afternoon was Elsie herself, carrying a handbag. 'You were going to bring your brother, Elsie,' said Mr. Dering. 'Where is he? And what is your important business with me? I suppose it is something about this wretched forgery, which really seems destined to finish me off. I have heard of nothing else--I think of nothing else--ever since it happened.' 'First, has anything new been discovered?' 'I hardly know,' Mr. Dering replied wearily. 'They seem to have found the man Edmund Gray; but Checkley has suddenly cooled. Formerly, he clamoured perpetually that we must lose no time in getting a warrant for his arrest; he now wants to put it off and put it off. He was going on very strangely this morning. My dear, I sometimes think that my old clerk is off his head.' 'And you yourself--have you had any return of your forgetfulness?' 'Worse--worse.--Every day, worse. I now know when to look for a return of these fits. Every morning I ask myself what I did the day before. Always there are the same hours of forgetfulness--the morning and the evening. Last night, where was I? Perhaps somebody will find out for me--for I cannot remember.' 'Shall I find out for you, Mr. Dering? If I were to tell you where you spent the evening yesterday, would you--would you?----' 'What? How can you find out?'