As he hesitated, Mr. Bradshaw spoke very calmly, and almost with a smile on his face.  He had regained his self-command.  “You are afraid, I see.  I assure you, you may trust me.  If there has been any fraud—­if I have the slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise I threw out just now,”—­he could not quite speak the bare naked word that was chilling his heart—­“I will not fail to aid the ends of justice, even though the culprit should be my own son.”

He ended, as he began, with a smile—­such a smile!—­the stiff lips refused to relax and cover the teeth.  But all the time he kept saying to himself—­

“I don’t believe it—­I don’t believe it.  I’m convinced it’s a blunder of that old fool Benson.”

But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the piece of paper, he went and locked the door, and laid his head on his desk, and moaned aloud.  He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights; at first, occupying himself in searching for the certificates of the Insurance shares; but, when all the boxes and other repositories for papers had been ransacked, the thought took hold of him that they might be in Richard’s private desk; and, with the determination which overlooks the means to get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on the complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided blows of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand.  He did not find the certificates.  Richard had always considered himself careful in destroying any dangerous or tell-tale papers; but the stern father found enough, in what remained, to convince him that his pattern son—­more even than his pattern son, his beloved pride—­was far other than what he seemed.

Mr. Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word.  He did not shrink while he read.  He folded up letter by letter; he snuffed the candle when its light began to wane, and no sooner; but he did not miss or omit one paper—­he read every word.  Then, leaving the letters in a heap upon the table, and the broken desk to tell its own tale, he locked the door of the room which was appropriated to his son as junior partner, and carried the key away with him.

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of many circumstances of Richard’s life, which shocked and dismayed his father—­there was still a faint hope that he might not be guilty of forgery—­that it might not be no forgery after all—­only a blunder—­an omission—­a stupendous piece of forgetfulness.  That hope was the one straw that Mr. Bradshaw clung to.

Late that night Mr. Benson sat in his study.  Every one else in the house had gone to bed; but he was expecting a summons to some one who was dangerously ill.  He was not startled, therefore, at the knock which came to the front door about twelve; but he was rather surprised at the character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a pause between each rap.  His study-door was but a step from that which led into the street.  He opened it, and there stood—­Mr. Bradshaw; his large, portly figure not to be mistaken even in the dusky night.