"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 eyes 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 began to tickle a
little, and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the
paper.

He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and