Then, instead of Boyde, I saw Grant standing shyly
on the threshold, the young actor who had pawned his
overcoat. This time he wore it.
The relief I felt at seeing him betrayed me to myself.
I welcomed him so heartily that his shyness disappeared. He had dropped in by chance, he told me. I gave him an account of my discovery, and he bent over me to see the cheque and letter, asking if the writing was really Kay's. He looked very grave.
"It's not unlike it, but it isn't his," I replied. "What do you make of it? Why are they torn up?" I was burning to hear what he thought.
He did not answer for a moment. He asked instead a number of questions about Boyde, listening closely to my account of him, which mentioned the good with the bad. He went down to examine the packing-case and returned with the report that my cheque-book was not there. I asked him again what he made of it all, waiting with nervous anxiety for his verdict, but again he put me off. He wanted to know when I last heard from Kay. Eight days ago, I told him, from Toronto. He asked numerous questions. He seemed as puzzled as I was.
"What do you think it means?" I begged. "What's he been doing?"
"Are you quite positive it's not Kay's writing," he urged, "even, for instance, if he was--" he hesitated--"a bit tight at the time?"
I clung to the faint hope. "Well, of course--I really couldn't say. I've never seen his writing when he was tight. I suppose----"
"Because if it isn't," interrupted Grant decisively, "it means that Boyde has been getting money from him and using it for himself."
I realized then that he was trying to make things less grave than they really were, trying to make it easier for me in the best way he could. The torn-up cheque proved his suggestion foolish.
"Do you think he's an absolute scoundrel?" I
