He said, “That is right.  It was you I wanted to see.”  And he walked straight into the study.  Mr. Benson followed, and shut the door.  Mr. Bradshaw was standing by the table, fumbling in his pocket.  He pulled out the deed; and, opening it, after a pause, in which you might have counted five, he held it out to Mr. Benson.

“Read it!” said he.  He spoke not another word until time had been allowed for its perusal.  Then he added—­

“That is your signature?” The words were an assertion, but the tone was that of question.

“No, it is not,” said Mr. Benson decidedly.  “It is very like my writing.  I could almost say it was mine, but I know it is not.”

“Recollect yourself a little.  The date is August the third of last year, fourteen months ago.  You may have forgotten it.”  The tone of the voice had a kind of eager entreaty in it, which Mr. Benson did not notice—­he was so startled at the fetch of his own writing.

“It is most singularly like mine; but I could not have signed away these shares—­all the property I have—­without the slightest remembrance of it.”

“Stranger things have happened.  For the love of Heaven, think if you did not sign it.  It’s a deed to transfer for those Insurance shares, you see.  You don’t remember it?  You did not write this name—­these words?” He looked at Mr. Benson with craving wistfulness for one particular answer.  Mr. Benson was struck at last by the whole proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr. Bradshaw, whose manner, gait, and voice, were so different from usual that he might well excite attention.  But as soon as the latter was aware of this momentary inspection, he changed his tone all at once.

“Don’t imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon you as a remembrance.  If you did not write this name, I know who did.  Once more I ask you—­does no glimmering recollection of—­having needed money, we’ll say—­I never wanted you to refuse my subscription to the chapel, God knows!—­of having sold these accursed shares?—­Oh!  I see by your face you did not write it; you need not to speak to me—­I know.”

He sank down into a chair near him.  His whole figure drooped.  In a moment he was up, and standing straight as an arrow, confronting Mr. Benson, who could find no clue to this stern man’s agitation.

“You say you did not write these words?” pointing to the signature, with an untrembling finger.  “I believe you; Richard Bradshaw did write them.”

“My dear sir—­my dear old friend!” exclaimed Mr. Benson, “you are rushing to a conclusion for which, I am convinced, there is no foundation; there is no reason to suppose that because——­”

“There is reason, sir.  Do not distress yourself—­I am perfectly calm.”  His stony eyes and immovable face did indeed look rigid.  “What we have now to do is to punish the offence.  I have not one standard for myself and those I love—­(and, Mr. Benson, I did love him)—­and another for the rest of the world.  If a stranger had forged my name, I should have known it was my duty to prosecute him.  You must prosecute Richard.”