Part 11 (1/2)
”To put the matter in a nutsh.e.l.l, sir, two checks were presented some weeks ago, signed by you, one for two thousand dollars, the other for five thousand dollars--which--”
”What!--when? I haven't signed a check for any thousand dollars for months.” This was true, as the miser's creditors knew to their cost. It was next to impossible to collect money from him.
”One check was made out to your daughter, Mary Swinton, and presented at the bank, and cashed by your grandson, Mr. Richard Swinton.”
”Yes, for five dollars.”
”Five thousand dollars, sir.”
”But I tell you I never drew it.”
”I'm very sorry to hear it, sir. The first check for two thousand dollars looks very much as though it had been altered, having been originally for two dollars; and, in the second check, made out to Mr. Swinton, the same kind of alteration occurs--five seems to have been changed into five thousand.”
”What!” screamed the old man, raising himself on one hand and extending the other. ”Let me look! Let me look!”
His bony claw was outstretched, every finger quivering with excitement.
”These are the checks, sir. That is your correct signature, I believe?”
”I never signed them--I never signed them. Take them away. They're not mine.”
”Pardon me, sir, the signature is undoubtedly yours. Do you remember signing any check for two dollars or for five?”
”Yes, yes, of course. I gave her two--yes--and I gave her five--for the boy.”
”Just so, sir. Well, some fraudulent person has altered the figures.
You'll see, if you look through this magnifying gla.s.s, holding the gla.s.s some distance from the eyes, that the ink of the major part of the check is different. When Mr. Swinton presented these checks, the ink was new, and the alterations were not apparent. But, in the course of time, the ink of the forgery has darkened.”
”The scoundrel!” cried the old man in guttural rage. ”I always said he'd come to a bad end--but I never believed it--never believed it. Let me look again. The rascal! The scoundrel! Do you mean to say he has robbed your bank of seven thousand dollars?”
”No, he has robbed you, sir,” replied the bank-manager, with alacrity, for his instructions were to drive home, at all costs, the fact that it was Herresford who had been swindled, and not the bank. They knew the man they were dealing with, and had no fancy for fighting on technical points. Unfortunately for the bank, Mr. Barnby was a little too eager.
”My money? Why should I lose money?” snapped the miser, turning around upon him. ”I didn't alter the checks. You ought to keep your eyes open.
If swindlers choose to tamper with my paper, what's it to do with me?
It's your risk, your business, your loss, not mine.”
”No, sir, surely not. A member of your own family--”
”A member of my own family be hanged, sir. He's no child of mine. He's the son of that canting sky-pilot, that parson of the slums.”
”But he is your grandson, sir. I take it that you would not desire a scandal, a public exposure.”
”A scandal! What's a scandal to me? Am I to pay seven thousand dollars for the privilege of being robbed, sir? No, sir. I entrusted you with the care of my money. You ought to take proper precautions, and safeguard me against swindlers and forgers.”
”But he is your heir.”
”Nothing of the sort. He is not my heir.”
”But some day--”