‘If you suspect it to be a forgery,’ she said, when she had waited in vain for him to speak further, ‘the best way of deciding is to go at once to Mr. Yottle. He will remember; it was he drew up the will.’
He flashed a glance at her.
‘I’m perfectly aware of that. If this is forged, the lawyer has of course given his help. He would be glad to see me.’
Again the suspicion was genuine. Mutimer felt himself hedged in; every avenue of escape to which his thoughts turned was closed in advance. There was no one he would not now have suspected. The full meaning of his position was growing upon him; it made a ferment in his mind.
‘Mr. Yottle!’ Adela exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You think it possible that he—Oh, that is folly!’
Yes, it was folly; her voice assured him of it, proclaiming at the same time the folly of his whole doubt. It was falling to pieces, and, as it fell, disclosing the image of his fate, inexorable, inconceivable.
He stood for more than five minutes in silence. Then he drew a little nearer to her, and asked in an unsteady voice:
‘Are you glad of this?’
‘Glad of it?’ she repeated under her breath.
‘Yes; shall you be glad to see me lose everything?’