The problem which was beginning to fascinate and enthrall Mr. Kirby would have advanced a stage or two further towards its solution had not the swing door of the smoking-room been flung up, and had there not burst through it, like a shell, the excited and angry form of Mr. Brassington.
Mr. Kirby hated business: he hated worry. His delight was to think things out. And therefore it was that Providence, which chastens those whom it loves, disturbed him with this sudden and most unquiet apparition of his close friend. Mr. Brassington's usually careful clothes were crumpled, his face was all a-sweat, his tie was quite dreadfully on one side, almost under his ear.
The merchant staggered up to the lawyer, put one hand on his shoulder, and said hoarsely—
"Forgery!"
Mr. Kirby firmly pushed his friend down into a chair.
"Forgery?" he asked in an interested tone, looking Mr. Brassington straight in the face.
Mr. Brassington nodded.
"Well, my dear Brassington," continued Mr. Kirby, "I will do what I can for you, but I warn you it is a very difficult crime to defend a man for."
