Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street
traced his uncle's signature. It was a poor thing at the best. 'But it
must do,' said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. 'He's
dead, anyway.' And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and
sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.
There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business,
and with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the
forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to
view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even
scrutinized the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared
to warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he
passed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an
appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior,
an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.
'Mr Morris Finsbury, I believe,' said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris
with a pair of double eye-glasses.
'That is my name,' said Morris, quavering. 'Is there anything wrong.
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