The Discovery of the Forgeries.

One morning the man who went once a-week from old Hawker’s, at the Woodlands, down to the post, brought back a letter, which he delivered to Madge at the door. She turned it over and examined it more carefully than she generally did the old man’s letters, for it was directed in a clerk-like hand, and was sealed with a big and important-looking seal, and when she came to examine this seal, she saw that it bore the words “B. and F. Bank.” “So, they are at it again, are they?” she said. “The deuce take ’em, I say: though for that matter I can’t exactly blame the folks for looking after their own. Well, there’s no mistake about one thing, he must see this letter, else some of ’em will be coming over and blowing the whole thing. He will ask me to read it for him, and I’ll do so, right an end. Lord, what a breeze there’ll be! I hope I shall be able to pull my lad through, though it very much depends on the old ‘uns temper. However, I shall soon know.”

Old Hawker was nearly blind, and, although an avaricious, suspicious old man, as a general rule, trusted implicitly on ordinary occasions to George and Madge in the management of his accounts, reflecting, with some reason, that it could not be their interest to cheat him. Of late, however, he had been uneasy in his mind. Madge, there was no denying, had got through a great deal more money than usual, and he was not satisfied with her account of where it had gone. She, we know, was in the habit of supplying George’s extravagances in a way which tried all her ingenuity to hide from him, and he, mistrusting her statements, had determined as far as he could to watch her.

On this occasion she laid the letter on the breakfast table, and waited his coming down, hoping that he might be in a good humour, so that there might be some chance of averting the storm from George. Madge was much terrified for the consequences, but was quite calm and firm.

Not long before she heard his heavy step coming down the stairs, and soon he came into the room, evidently in no favourable state of mind.

“If you don’t kill or poison that black tom-cat,” was his first speech, “by the Lord I will. I suppose you keep him for some of your witchwork. But, if he’s the devil himself, as I believe he is, I’ll shoot him. I won’t be kept out of my natural sleep by such a devil’s brat as that. He’s been keeping up such a growling and a scrowling on the hen-house roof all night, that I thought it was Old Scratch come for you, and getting impatient. If you must keep an imp of Satan in the house, get a mole, or a rat, or some quiet beast of that sort, and not such a vicious toad as him.”

“Shoot him after breakfast if you like,” she said. “He’s no friend of mine. Get your breakfast, and don’t be a fool. There’s a letter for you; take and read it.”

“Yah! Read it, she says, and knows I’m blind,” said Hawker. “You artful minx, you want to read it yourself.”

He took the letter up, and turned it over and over. He knew the seal, and shot a suspicious glance at her. Then, looking at her fixedly, he put it in his breastpocket, and buttoned up his coat.

“There!” he said. “I’ll read it. Oh yes, believe me, I’ll read it. You Jezebel!”

“You’d better eat your meat like a Christian man,” she answered, “and not make such faces as them.”

“Where’s the man?” he asked.

“Outside, I suppose.”

“Tell him I want the gig. I’m going out for a drive. A pleasure drive, you know. All down the lane, and back again. Cut along and tell him before I do you a mischief.”

She saw he was in one of his evil humours, when nothing was to be done with him, and felt very uneasy. She went and ordered the gig, and when he had finished breakfast, he came out to the door.

“You’d best take your big coat,” she said, “else you’ll be getting cold, and be in a worse temper than you are — and that’s bad enough, Lord knows, for a poor woman to put up with.”

“How careful she is!” said Hawker. “What care she takes of the old man! I’ve left you ten thousand pounds in my will, ducky. Good-bye.”

He drove off, and left her standing in the porch. What a wild, tall figure she was, standing so stern and steadfast there in the morning sun! — a woman one would rather have for a friend than an enemy.

Hawker was full of other thoughts than these. Coupling his other suspicions of Madge with the receipt of this letter from the bank, he was growing very apprehensive of something being wrong. He wanted this letter read to him, but whom could he trust? Who better than his old companion Burrows, who lived in the valley below the Vicarage? So, whipping up his horse, he drove there, but found he was out. He turned back again, puzzled, going slowly, and as he came to the bottom of the hill, below the Vicarage, he saw a tall man leaning against the gate, and smoking.

“He’ll do for want of a better,” he said to himself. “He’s an honest-going fellow, and we’ve always been good friends, and done good business together, though he is one of that cursed Vicarage lot.”

So he drew up when he came to the gate. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Troubridge,” he said, with a very different tone and manner to what we have been accustomed to hear him use, “but could you do a kindness for a blind old man? I have no one about me that I can trust since my son is gone away. I have reason to believe that this letter is of importance; could you be so good as to read it to me?”

“I shall be happy to oblige you, Mr. Hawker,” said Tom. “I am sorry to hear that your sight is so bad.”

“Yes; I’m breaking fast,” said Hawker. “However, I shan’t be much missed. I don’t inquire how the Vicar is, because I know already, and because I don’t think he would care much for my inquiries, after the injury my son has done him. I will break the seal. Now, may I trouble you?”

Tom Troubridge read aloud:—

“B. and F. Bank. [Such a date.]

“SIR — May I request that you will favour me personally with a call, at the earliest possible opportunity, at my private office, 166, Broad Street? I have reason to fear that two forged cheques, bearing your signature, have been inadvertently cashed by us. The amount, I am sorry to inform you, is considerable. I need not further urge your immediate attention. This is the third communication we have made to you on the subject, and are much surprised at receiving no answer. I hope that you will be so good as to call at once.

Yours, sir, &c., P. ROLLOX, Manager.”

“I thank you, Mr. Troubridge,” said the old man, quietly and politely. “You see I was not wrong when I thought that this letter was of importance. May I beg as a favour that you would not mention this to any one?”

“Certainly, Mr. Hawker. I will respect your wish. I hope your loss may not be heavy.”

“The loss will not be mine though, will it?” said old Hawker. “I anticipate that it will fall on the bank. It is surely at their risk to cash cheques. Why, a man might sign for all the money I have in their hands, and surely they would be answerable for it?”

“I am not aware how the law stands, Mr. Hawker,” said Troubridge. “Fortunately, no one has ever thought it worth while to forge my name.”

“Well, I wish you a good day, sir, with many thanks,” said Hawker. “Can I do anything for you in Exeter?”

Old Hawker drove away rapidly in the direction of Exeter; his horse, a fine black, clearing the ground in splendid style. Although a cunning man, he was not quick in following a train of reasoning, and he was half-way to Exeter before he had thoroughly comprehended his situation. And then, all he saw was that somebody had forged his name, and he believed that Madge knew something about it.

“I wish my boy George was at home,” he said. “He’d save me getting a lawyer now. I am altogether in the hands of those Bank folks if they like to cheat me, though it’s not likely they’d do that. At all events I will take Dickson with me.”

Dickson was an attorney of good enough repute. A very clever, quiet man, and a good deal employed by old Hawker, when his business was not too disreputable. Some years before, Hawker had brought some such excessively dirty work to his office, that the lawyer politely declined having anything to do with it, but recommended him to an attorney who he thought would undertake it. And from that time the old fellow treated him with marked respect, and spoke everywhere of him as a man to be trusted: such an effect had the fact of a lawyer refusing business made on him!

He reached Exeter by two o’clock, so rapidly had he driven. He went at once to Dickson’s, and found him at home, busy swinging the poker, in deep thought, before the fireplace in his inner office. He was a small man, with an impenetrable, expressionless face, who never was known to unbend himself to a human being. Only two facts were known about him. One was that he was the best swimmer in Exeter, and had saved several lives from drowning, and the other was, that he gave away (for him) large sums in private charity.

Such was the man who now received old Hawker, with quiet politeness; and having sent his horse round to the inn stable by a clerk, sat down once more by the fire, and began swinging the poker, and waiting for the other to begin the conversation.

“If you are not engaged, Mr. Dickson,” said Hawker, “I would be much obliged to you if you could step round to the B. and F. Bank with me. I want you to witness what passes, and to read any letters or papers for me that I shall require.”

The attorney put down the poker, got his hat, and stood waiting, all without a word.

“You won’t find it necessary to remark on anything that occurs, Mr. Dickson, unless I ask your opinion.”

The attorney nodded, and whistled a tune. And then they started together through the crowded street.

The bank was not far, and Hawker pushed his way in among the crowd of customers. It was some time before he could get hold of a clerk, there was so much business going on. When, at last, he did so, he said —“I want to see Mr. Rollox; he told me to call on him at once.”

“He is engaged at present,” said the clerk. “It is quite impossible you can see him.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about, man,” said Hawker. “Send in and tell him Mr. Hawker, of Drumston, is here.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Hawker. I have only just come here, and did not know you. Porter, show Mr. Hawker in.”

They went into the formal bank parlour. There was the leather writing table, the sheet almanac, the iron safe, and all the weapons by which bankers war against mankind, as in all other sanctuaries of the kind. Moreover, there was the commander-inchief himself, sitting at the table. A bald, clever, gentlemanly-looking man, who bowed when they came in. “Good day, Mr. Hawker. I am obliged to you for calling at last. We thought something was wrong. Mr. Dickson, I hope you are well. Are you attending with Mr. Hawker, or are you come on private business?”

The attorney said —“I’m come at his request,” and relapsed into silence.

“Ah!” said the manager. “I am, on the whole, glad that Mr. Hawker has brought a professional adviser with him. Though,” he added, laughing, “it is putting me rather at a disadvantage, you know. Two to one — eh?”

“Now, gentlemen, if you will be so good as to close the door carefully, and be seated, I will proceed to business, hoping that you will give me your best attention. About six or eight months ago — let me be particular, though,” said he, referring to some papers — “that is rather a loose way of beginning. Here it is. The fourth of September, last year — yes. On that day, Mr. Hawker, a cheque was presented at this bank, drawn ‘in favour of bearer,’ and signed in your name, for two hundred pounds, and cashed, the person who presented it being well known here.”

“Who?” interrupted Hawker.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the manager; “allow me to come to that hereafter. You were about to say, I anticipate, that you never drew a cheque ‘on bearer’ in your life? Quite true. That ought to have excited attention, but it did not till, a very few weeks ago, our head-clerk, casting his eye down your account, remarked on the peculiarity, and, on examining the cheque, was inclined to believe that it was not in your usual handwriting. He intended communicating with me, but was prevented for some days by my absence; and, in the meantime, another cheque, similar, but better imitated, was presented by the same person, and cashed, without the knowledge of the head-clerk. On the cheque coming into his hands, he reprimanded the cashier, and he and I, having more closely examined them, came to the conclusion that they were both forgeries. We immediately communicated with you, and, to our great surprise, received no answer either to our first or second application. We, however, were not idle. We ascertained that we could lay our hands on the utterer of the cheques at any moment, and tried a third letter to you, which has been successful.”

“The two letters you speak of have never reached me, Mr. Rollox,” said Hawker. “I started off on the receipt of yours this morning — the first I saw. I am sorry, sir, that the bank should lose money through me; but, by your own showing, sir, the fault lay with your own clerks.”

“I have never attempted to deny it, Mr. Hawker,” said the manager. “But there are other matters to be considered. Before I go on, I wish to give you an opportunity of sending away your professional adviser, and continuing this conversation with me alone.”

They both turned and looked at the lawyer. He was sitting with his hands in his pockets, and one would have thought he was whistling, only no sound came. His face showed no signs of intelligence in any feature save his eyes, and they were expressive of the wildest and most unbounded astonishment.

“I have nothing to do in this matter, sir,” said Hawker, “that I should not wish Mr. Dickson to hear. He is an honourable man, and I confide in him thoroughly.”

“So be it, then, Mr. Hawker,” said the manager. “I have as high an opinion of my friend Mr. Dickson as you have; but I warn you, that some part of what will follow will touch you very unpleasantly.”

“I don’t see how,” said Hawker; “go on, if you please.”

“Will you be good enough to examine these two cheques, and say whether they are genuine or not?”

“I have only to look at the amount of this large one, to pronounce it an impudent forgery,” said Hawker. “I have not signed so large a cheque for many years. There was one last January twelvemonth of 400 pounds, for the land at Highcot, and that is the largest, I believe, I ever gave in my life.”

“There can be no doubt they are forgeries. Your sight, I believe, is too bad to swear easily to your own signature; but that is quite enough. Now, I have laid this case before our governor, Lord C— — and he went so far as to say that, under the painful circumstances of the case, if you were to refund the money, the bank might let the matter drop; but that, otherwise, it would be their most painful duty to prosecute.”

“I refund the money!” laughed Hawker; “you are playing with me, sir. Prosecute the dog; I will come and see him hung! Ha! ha!”

“It will be a terrible thing if we prosecute the utterer of these cheques,” said the manager.

“Why?” said Hawker. “By-the-bye, you know who he is, don’t you? Tell me who it is?”

“Your own son, Mr. Hawker,” said the manager, almost in a whisper.

Hawker rose and glared at them with such a look of deadly rage that they shrank from him appalled. Then, he tottered to the mantelpiece and leant against it, trying to untie his neckcloth with feeble, trembling fingers.............