“You needn’t take any of them off. I expect I know which is which,” said Edwin, holding out his hand.
Darius hesitated, and then yielded up the bunch.
“Thanks,” said Edwin lightly.
But the old man’s reluctance to perform this simple and absolutely necessary act of surrender, the old man’s air of having done something tremendous—these signs frightened Edwin and shook his courage for the demand compared to which the demand for the keys was naught. Still, the affair had to be carried through.
“And I say,” he proceeded, jingling the keys, “about signing and endorsing cheques. They tell me at the Bank that if you sign a general authority to me to do it for you, that will be enough.”
He could not avoid looking guilty. He almost felt guilty, almost felt as if he were plotting against his father’s welfare. And as he spoke his words seemed unreal and his suggestion fantastic. At the Bank the plan had been simple, easy, and perfectly natural. But there could be no doubt, that as he had walked up Trafalgar Road, receding from the Bank and approaching his father, the plan had gradually lost those attractive qualities. And now in the garden it was merely monstrous.
Silent, Darius resumed the spade.
“Well,” said Edwin desperately. “What about it?”
“Do you think”—Darius glowered upon him with heavy, desolating scorn—“do you think as I’m going to let you sign my cheques for me? You’re taking too much on yourself, my lad.”
“But—”