“Ah, good-day, Monsieur Charles!” cried he, “It is long since we met. Odd, too, that I should meet you to-day. I was just thinking of you this morning.”
“Why, may I ask?” said Charles, half-absently.
“Well, you see, only to-day I saw up at the bank a paper—a bill for thirty or forty thousand francs—bearing both your name and that of Monsieur Alphonse. It astonished me, for I thought that you two—hm!—had done with each other.”
“No, we have not quite done with each other yet,” said Charles, slowly.
He struggled with all his might to keep his face calm, and asked in as natural a tone as he could command: “When does the bill fall due? I don’t quite recollect.”
“To-morrow or the day after, I think,” answered the other, who was a hard-worked business man, and was already in a hurry to be off. “It was accepted by Monsieur Alphonse.”
“I know that,” said Charles; “but could you not manage to let me redeem the bill to-morrow? It is a courtesy—a favor I am anxious to do.”
“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.