Leonard was getting tired of waiting when he received his summons to Normanstand.  But despite his impatience he was ill pleased with the summons, which came in the shape of a polite note from Miss Rowly asking him to come that afternoon at tea-time.  He had expected to hear from Stephen.  
‘Damn that old woman!  You’d think she was working the whole show!’  However, he turned up at a little before five o’clock, spruce and dapper and well dressed and groomed as usual.  He was shown, as before, into the blue drawing-room.  Miss Rowly, who sat there, rose as he entered, and coming across the room, greeted him, as he thought, effusively.  He actually winced when she called him ‘my dear boy’ before the butler.
 
She ordered tea to be served at once, and when it had been brought she said to the butler:
 
‘Tell Mannerly to bring me a large thick envelope which is on the table in my room.  It is marked L.E. on the outside.’  Presently an elderly maid handed her the envelope and withdrew.  When tea was over she opened the envelope, and taking from it a number of folios, looked over them carefully; holding them in her lap, she said quietly:
 
‘You will find writing materials on the table.  I am all ready now to hand you over the receipts.’  His eyes glistened.  This was good news at all events; the debts were paid.  In a rapid flash of thought he came to the conclusion that if the debts were actually paid he need not be civil to the old lady.  He felt that he could have been rude to her if he had actual possession of the receipts.  As it was, however, he could not yet afford to have any unpleasantness.  There was still to come that lowering interview with his father; and he could not look towards it satisfactorily until he had the assurance of the actual documents that he was safe.  Miss Rowly was, in her own way, reading his mind in his face.  Her lorgnon seemed to follow his every expression like a searchlight.  He remembered his former interview with her, and how he had been bested in it; so he made up his mind to acquiesce in time.  He went over to the table and sat down.  Taking a pen he turned to Miss Rowly and said:
 
‘What shall I write?’  She answered calmly:
 
‘Date it, and then say, “Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly the receipts for the following amounts from the various firms hereunder enumerated.”’  She then proceeded to read them, he writing and repeating as he wrote.  Then she added:
 
‘“The same being the total amount of my debts which she has kindly paid for me.”’  He paused here; she asked.
 
‘Why don’t you go on?’
 
‘I thought it was Stephen—Miss Norman,’ he corrected, catching sight of her lorgnon, ‘who was paying them.’
 
‘Good Lord, man,’ she answered, ‘what does it matter who has paid them, so long as they are paid?’
 
‘But I didn’t ask you to pay them,’ he went on obstinately.  There was a pause, and then the old lady, with a distinctly sarcastic smile, said:
 
‘It seems to me, young man, that you are rather particular as to how things are done for you.  If you had begun to be just a little bit as particular in making the debts as you are in the way of having them paid, there would be a little less trouble and expense all round.  However, the debts have been paid, and we can’t unpay them.  But of course you can repay me the money if you like.  It amounts in all to four thousand three hundred and seventeen pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence, and I have paid every penny of it out of my own pocket.  If you can’t pay it yourself, perhaps your father would like to do so.’
 
The last shot told; he went on writing: ‘“Kindly paid for me,”’ she continued in the same even voice:
 
‘“In remembrance of my mother, of whom she was an acquaintance.”  Now sign it!’  He did so and handed it to her.  She read it over carefully, folded it, and put it in her pocket.  She then stood.  He rose also; and as he moved to the door—he had not offered to shake hands with her—he said:
 
‘I should like to see, Miss Norman.’
 
‘I am afraid you will have to wait.’
 
‘Why?’
 
‘She is over at Heply Regis.  She went there for Lady Heply’s ball, and will remain for a few days.  Good afternoon!’  The tone in which the last two words were spoken seemed in his ears like the crow of the victor after a cock-fight.
 
As he was going out of the room a thought struck her.  She felt he deserved some punishment for his personal rudeness to her.  After all, she had paid half her fortune for him, though not on his account; and not only had he given no thanks, but had not even offered the usual courtesy of saying good-bye.  She had intended to have been silent on the subject, and to have allowed him to discover it later.  Now she said, as if it was an after-thought:
 
‘By the way, I did not pay those items you put down as “debts of honour”; you remember you gave the actual names and addresses.’
 
‘Why not?’ the question came from him involuntarily.  The persecuting lorgnon rose again:
 
‘Because they were all bogus!  Addresses, names, debts, honour!  Good afternoon!’
 
He went out flaming; free from debt, money debts; all but one.  And some other debts—not financial—whose magnitude was exemplified in the grinding of his teeth.
 
After breakfast next morning he said to his father:
 
‘By the way, you said you wished to speak to me, sir.’  There was something in the tone of his voice which called up antagonism.
 
‘Then you have paid your debts?’
 
‘All!’
 
‘Good!  Now there is something which it is necessary I should call your attention to.  Do you remember the day on which I handed you that pleasing epistle from Messrs. Cavendish and Cecil?’
 
‘Certainly, sir.’
 
‘Didn’t you send a telegram to them?’
 
‘I did.’
 
‘You wrote it yourself?’
 
‘Certainly.’
 
‘I had a courteous letter from the money-lenders, thanking me for my exertions in securing the settlement of their claim, and saying that in accordance with the request in my telegram they had held over proceedings until the day named.  I did not quite remember having sent any telegram to them, or any letter either.  So, being at a loss, I went to our excellent postmaster and requested that he would verify the sending of a telegram to London from me.  He courteously looked up the file; which was ready for transference to the G.P.O., and showed me the form.  It was in your handwriting.’  He paused so long that Leonard presently said:
 
‘Well!’
 
‘It was signed Jasper Everard.  Jasper Everard! my name; and yet it was sent by my son, who was christened, if I remember rightly, Leonard!’  Then he went on, only in a cold acrid manner which made his son feel as though a February wind was blowing on his back:
 
‘I think there need not have been much trouble in learning to avoid confusing our names.  They are really dissimilar.  Have you any explanation to offer of the—the error, let us call it?’  A bright thought struck Leonard.
 
&ls............