and was already in a hurry to be off. "It was accepted by Monsieur Alphonse."
"I know that," said Charles; "but could you not manage to let me redeem the bill to-morrow? It is a courtesy—a favour I am anxious to do."
"With pleasure. Tell your messenger to ask for me personally at the bank to-morrow afternoon. I will arrange it; nothing easier. Excuse me; I'm in a hurry. Good-bye!" and with that he ran on—
—Next day Charles sat in his counting-house waiting for the messenger who had gone up to the bank to redeem Alphonse's bill.
At last a clerk entered, laid a folded blue paper by his principal's side, and went out again.
Not until the door was closed did Charles seize the draft, look swiftly round the room, and open it. He stared for a second or two at his name, then lay back in his chair and drew a deep breath. It was as he had expected—the signature was a forgery.
He bent over it again. For long he sat, gazing at his own name, and observing how badly it was counterfeited.
While his sharp eye followed every line in the letters of his name, he scarcely thought. His mind was so disturbed, and his feelings so strangely conflicting, that it was some time before he became conscious how much they betrayed—these bungling strokes on the blue paper.
He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose
