CHAPTER XX. — MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
Guy rose mechanically, and followed him to the door. Nevitt still held the forged cheque in his hand. Guy thought of it so to himself in plain terms, as the forgery. Yet somehow, he knew not why, he followed that sinister figure through the passage and down the stairs like one irresistibly and magnetically drawn forward. Why, he couldn’t let any one go forth upon the streets of London—with the cheque he himself had forged in his hands—unwatched and unshadowed.
Nevitt called a cab; and jumped in, and beckoned him. Guy, still as in a dream, jumped after him hastily.
“To the London and West Country Bank, in Lombard Street,” Nevitt called through the flap.
The cab drove off; and Guy Waring leaned back, all trembling and irresolute, with his head on the cushions.
At last, after a short drive, during which Guy’s head seemed to be swimming most dreamily, they reached the bank—that crowded bank in Lombard Street. Nevitt thrust the cheque bodily into his companion’s hand.
“Take it in, now, and cash it,” he said with an authoritative air. “Do you hear what I say? Take it in—and cash it.”
Guy, as if impelled by some superior power, walked inside the door, and presented it timidly.