"By the way," he said, "we were just going to send you notice of an overdraft. That last big cheque of yours has left you a deficit."
Babbacombe stared at him. He had barely a fortnight before deposited a large sum of money at the bank, and he had not written any large cheque since.
"I don't understand," he said. "What cheque?"
The manager looked at him sharply.
"Why, the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, which your agent presented yesterday," he said. "It bore your signature and was dated the previous day. You wrote it, I suppose?"
Babbacombe was still staring blankly, but at the sudden question he pulled himself together.
"Oh, that! Yes, to be sure. Careless of me. I gave him a blank cheque for the Millsand estate expenses some weeks ago. It must have been that."
But though he spoke with a smiling face, his heart had gone suddenly cold with doubt. He knew full well that the expenses of which he spoke had been paid by West long before.
He refused to linger, and went out again after a few commonplaces, feeling as if he had been struck a stunning blow between the eyes.
Driving swiftly back through the park, he recovered somewhat from the shock. There must be—surely there would be!—some explanation.