“By heavens, Francis, what do you mean by such a question? I have committed many follies in my life—I have been a fool, a ne’er-do-weel, a spendthrift, I am a deserter—but a forger of false bank-notes! Francis, could you suspect me of such infamy?”
“I wish I had only suspicions, Rudolf; unfortunately I have the proofs.”
“The proofs!” he cried, in a sorrowful tone of voice; “but that’s impossible.”
“What am I to think of the false letters of exchange in which you forged your father’s signature? We have got them under lock and key, these terrible proofs, and they have cost us dear. I have pardoned this fault with the rest, Rudolf; but facts are facts.”
“It is impossible, I tell you!” he answered with firmness. “There must be some terrible mistake in this case, and I trust you will assist me in clearing it up. If my father believes that of me, I am not surprised he should rejoice at my death, nor am I astonished you despise me. However, I solemnly protest to you by all that’s dear to me, I am innocent, Francis.”
“Yet these bills were presented to Baron von Zwenken, and we paid them to prevent a lawsuit. It could not have affected you very much, for you were in America; but my grandfather would have been obliged to retire from the army.”
“Francis, you are possessed of good, sound sense. How dared I have committed such an offence just at the time I was in hiding near Zutphen, at the moment when you were so generously raising funds for my enterprise in America; nay, at the moment when my sincerest desire was to carry my father’s forgiveness with me into exile? Show me these accursed bills, and I will prove my innocence.”
“They are in the General’s possession; I cannot get at them to show you them.”
“If we had them here, I would soon prove to you that it is impossible for me, with my wretched handwriting, to imitate the fine and regular hand of my father. What is your opinion, Mr. Leopold?”
“I believe what you say,” I answered.