Williamson, who now watched, as a cat a mouse, Eversleigh as he had watched Silwood, had put the letter into his principal's hand with the remark that it was such a pity Mr. Bennet was ruining himself; he seemed bent on going headlong to destruction! Francis Eversleigh merely nodded, read the letter, and said dully that he would attend to the matter himself presently. At first he was not without hope that all was well, and that the advance could be procured. But a brief examination showed him that Beauclerk Mansions no longer stood in Bennet's name--they had been sold during the preceding year, as he shortly discovered, by Silwood. Amongst other things, this of course meant that Silwood had forged Bennet's signature. But, at the moment, Eversleigh did not stop to think of it; the one damning fact which stood forth with frightful distinctness was that Beauclerk Mansions were already sold. "What am I to do?" groaned Eversleigh. He considered if there was any way by which he could raise the money; but ten thousand pounds is a large sum, even to a rich man, when it has to be put down in cold cash. Still, the credit of the firm was unimpaired, and for a few brief moments Eversleigh permitted himself the luxury of imagining his bankers would advance the amount. But he knew they would not do so without security, and he was certain he had none to offer. Silwood had taken care of that. "What am I to do? In Heavens name, what am I to do?" Eversleigh asked himself, while his heart seemed to be contracting under the unrelenting grip of a hand of iron. Ruin, black ruin! It was coming very near, very near! And worse than ruin. Infamy! Again, as often before, he saw the convict's cell, the desolate home, the wife and children whom he loved for ever disgraced. The cold sweat of terror, of despair, stood on the brows of the wretched man, who shook and trembled as with palsy. He had a swooning sense that he was standing in the midst of a dissolving world, a wreck amidst a myriad of wrecks all whirling on to some dark abyss. He felt as if his brain were giving way under these repeated shocks; then a merciful blankness and vacuity of thought and impression suddenly descended upon him. Williamson, coming into the room later, found Eversleigh in a faint stretched across the table. The head-clerk regarded his principal curiously; then he proceeded, before attempting to resuscitate Eversleigh, to look carefully over the papers lying on the table. Amongst them, however, he saw nothing that was of a specially suspicious character, unless it was Bennet's letter. Having satisfied himself on this point, Williamson next endeavoured to revive his master. "I am afraid you're trying to do too much," he observed to Eversleigh, when the latter had recovered. "Now that Mr. Silwood is gone, your work is doubled."