“I am arrested on a charge of forging Shelton’s signature to a bill for ten thousand pounds.”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed his friend, starting up in horror.  “But it is impossible that they should think you—­”

“Shelton,” continued Adrien steadily, “has written a letter saying that the signature is a forgery.”

“I wrote last week, not knowing; but, of course”—­he laughed scornfully—­“it is all a mistake, which can soon be rectified.  The idea of coming to you for such a thing!  I hope you don’t believe, my dear Adrien, that I had any hand in this monstrous accusation?”

“Of course, I know that,” replied his friend, holding out his hand.  “But the writing has a distinct resemblance to mine, I admit; and two witnesses are ready to prove, so the inspector tells me, that they saw me enter the office of a certain ‘Harker’s,’ I think it is, where the bill was signed, and also that my motor was standing at the door.  While a third witness, a clerk at the office, has filed an affidavit that he actually saw me writing on the bill, there.  All this, father”—­turning once more to the old man—­“passes a jest.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Lord Barminster sarcastically; “for a Leroy, who can command a hundred thousand pounds by a stroke of his pen, to forge a bill for ten thousand pounds is not a jest, but simple madness.  The charge is some insolent conspiracy.”

Almost unconsciously, he fixed his glance on Jasper Vermont, who, during the whole time, had sat motionless and silent.  It seemed as if he guessed, intuitively, that that smooth individual was at the bottom of it all.  Then he turned his grey eyes to Adrien’s calm face, and from his to the white one of Lady Constance, whose eyes were flashing with anger at the mere idea of any one doubting Adrien’s honour.

There was a moment’s silence, broken by Shelton, who rose and grasped his friend’s hand.

“Adrien,” he said, in a voice charged with emotion, “Adrien, I can bear this no longer.  Give this foul accusation the lie.  I know, my dear fellow, as surely as I know that I did not write it myself, that you had nothing to do with the accursed signature.  But, for Heaven’s sake, tell the others so too.”

Adrien returned the friendly clasp with a smile that lit up his whole face; then looking round, he said quietly: 

“I did not write it; I know nothing of it.”

Lord Barminster rose from his seat at the sound of his son’s voice, and put his hand on Adrien’s shoulder; then, as if half ashamed of his pardonable emotion, he turned to the inspector.

“You hear, sir, Mr. Leroy knows nothing of the matter.”

“That, my lord,” returned the inspector respectfully, “would not justify me in leaving here without him.  I fear he must accompany me; my instructions under the warrant are too strict.  Mere denial is, of course, a common matter, and a usual one—­begging your pardon, my lord”—­for the old man had started indignantly.