“A thousand pounds—really!” cried Dr. Cumberly, drawing his heavy brows together—“as much as that?”
“Certainly. It was for a thousand pounds,” repeated Max, “and the whole of that amount had been drawn out.”
“The whole thousand?”
“The whole thousand; nom d’un p’tit bonhomme! The whole thousand! Acting, as I have said, upon the information in this always priceless letter, I confronted Madame Jean and the manager of the bank with each other. Morbleu! ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Mira Leroux of London!’”…
“What!” cried Cumberly, seemingly quite stupefied by this last revelation.
Max spread wide his palms, and the flexible lips expressed sympathy with the doctor’s stupefaction.
“It is as I tell you,” he continued. “This Madame Jean had been posing as Mrs. Leroux, and in some way, which I was unable to understand, her signature had been accepted by the Crédit Lyonnais. I examined the specimen signature which had been forwarded to them by the London County and Suburban Bank, and I perceived, at once, that it was not a case of common forgery. The signatures were identical”…
“Therefore,” said Cumberly, and he was thinking of Henry Leroux, whom Fate delighted in buffeting—“therefore, the Crédit Lyonnais is not responsible?”
