“She has disgraced the name of Grahame,” he muttered between his set teeth; “but how?—how? It is a black mystery; still she has gone—fled! She must be discarded—disowned! How could we receive her again? has she not disgraced the name of Grahame?”
And he looked around him loftily and proudly.
He uttered a cry of horror.
Up on the shadowed cornice he saw written, in letters of lambent flame, the frightful word—forgery!
He covered his eyes with his hands; and still, in fiery characters—leaping, coruscating, glittering—he saw the word—forgery!
He dared not look into either of the murky corners of the apartment, for in one he expected to see sitting, grinning and gibbering at him like a fiend, his arch accomplice, Chewkle.
Disgraced the name of Grahame! What, then, had he done? In what immaculate position did he stand, that he should close his door upon his child—discard, disown her, upon a mere suspicion of error? He slunk into a chair. He felt how hollow was his pride, how contemptible himself. With an impatient and trembling hand he turned up the lamp, until the room was one glare of light.
He rang his bell violently.
The summons was answered by Whelks.
“Tell me,” said Mr. Grahame, resuming his cold, austere manner, “has any person been here desiring to see me privately during my absence?”