"My good fellow, I may be careless, but I'm not so damned careless as that." Mordaunt pulled out a bunch of keys with the words. "Let me have a look at my cheque-book. You know where it is."
Yes, Bertrand knew. He was as cognizant of the whereabouts of Mordaunt's possessions as if they had been his own, and he had as free an access to them. Such was the confidence reposed in him.
He took the keys, selected the right one, stooped to fit it into the lock. And then suddenly something happened. A violent tremor went through him. He clutched at the table-edge, and the keys clattered to the ground.
"Hullo!" Mordaunt said.
Bertrand was staring downwards with eyes that saw not. At the sound of Mordaunt's voice he started, and began to grope on the floor for the keys as if stricken blind.
"There they are, man, by your feet." Mordaunt stooped and recovered them himself. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"
Bertrand lifted a ghastly face. "I am quite well," he said. "But—but surely the bank would not cash a cheque so large without reference to you!"
Mordaunt looked at him a moment. "I have been in the habit of drawing large sums," he said. "But I usually write a note to the bank to accompany a cheque of this sort."
He turned to the drawer and unlocked it. His cheque-book lay in its accustomed place within. He took it out and commenced a careful examination of the counterfoils of cheques already drawn.
Bertrand sat quite motionless, with bowed head. He seemed to be numbly waiting for something.