“Do you know his handwriting?” inquired Keith, grimly.

“Whose?”

“Well, that of both of them?”

She nodded, and Keith, taking out his pocket-book, opened it and took therefrom a slip of paper.  “Look at that.  I got that a few days ago from the witness who was present.”

“Why, what is this?” She sprang up in her excitement.

“It is incredible!” she said slowly.  “Why, he told me the story with the utmost circumstantiality.”

“He lied to you,” said Keith, grimly.  “And Rimmon lied.  That is their handwriting.  I have had it examined by the best expert in New York City.  I had not intended to use that against him, but only to clear the character of that poor young creature whom he deceived and then abandoned; but as he is defaming her here, and is at his old trade of trying to deceive women, it is time he was shown up in his true colors.”

She gave a shudder of horror, and wiped her right hand with her left.  “Oh, to think that he dared!” She wiped her hand on her handkerchief.

At that moment a servant brought in a card.  As Mrs. Lancaster gazed at it, her eyes flashed and her lip curled.

“Say that Mrs. Lancaster begs to be excused.”

“Yes, madam.”  The servant hesitated.  “I think he heard you talking, madam.”

“Say that Mrs. Lancaster begs to be excused,” she said firmly.

The servant, with a bow, withdrew.

She handed the card to Keith.  On it was the name of the Rev. William H.
Rimmon.

Mr. Rimmon, as he stood in the hall, was in unusually good spirits, though slightly perturbed.  He had determined to carry through a plan that he had long pondered over.  He had decided to ask Mrs. Lancaster to become Mrs. Rimmon.

As Keith glanced toward the door, he caught Mr. Rimmon’s eye.  He was waiting on the threshold and rubbing his hands with eager expectancy.  Just then the servant gave him the message.  Keith saw his countenance fall and his face blanch.  He turned, picked up his hat, and slipped out of the door, with a step that was almost a slink.

As Mr. Rimmon passed down the street he knew that he had reached a crisis in his life.  He went to see Wickersham, but that gentleman was in no mood for condolences.  Everything had gone against him.  He was facing utter ruin.  Rimmon’s upbraiding angered him.

“By the way, you are the very man I wanted to see,” he said grimly.  “I want you to sign a note for that twenty thousand I lost by you when you insisted on my holding that stock.”

Rimmon’s jaw fell.  “That you held for me?  Sign a note!  Twenty-six thousand!”

“Yes.  Don’t pretend innocence—­not on me.  Save that for the pulpit.  I know you,” said the other, with a chilling laugh.

“But you were to carry that.  That was a part of our agreement.  Why, twenty thousand would take everything I have.”

“Don’t play that on me,” said Wickersham, coldly.  “It won’t work.  You can make it up when you get your widow.”