"I was told," Babbacombe said again, "that you cashed a cheque of mine yesterday for two hundred and fifty pounds. Is that so?"
"It is," said West curtly.
"And yet," Babbacombe proceeded, "I understood from you that the Millsand estate business was settled long ago."
"It was," said West.
"Then this cheque—this cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds—where did it come from, West?" There was a note of entreaty in Babbacombe's voice.
West jerked up his head at the sound. It was a gesture openly contemptuous. "Can't you guess?" he said.
Babbacombe stiffened at the callous question. "You refuse to answer me?" he asked.
"That is my answer," said West.
"I am to understand then that you have robbed me—that you have forged my signature to do so—that you—great heavens, man"—Babbacombe's amazement burst forth irresistibly—"it's incredible! Are you mad, I wonder? You can't have done it in your sober senses. You would never have been so outrageously clumsy."
West shrugged his shoulders.