Freeman strutted in ahead of his companion and asked to see the manager on important business; when the clerk showed the way to the manager’s office, Freeman went first, Freyberger following humbly in his wake. “Never mind,” thought Freyberger, “he’ll soon be playing another tune.”
The manager, an aristocratic-looking man with long white hands, side whiskers and a bald head, turned over the cheque in a meditative manner. “This cheque is perfectly in order,” he said.
“This gentleman seems to think otherwise,” said Freeman.
“Decidedly,” said Freyberger. “I am unacquainted with Sir Anthony Gyde’s handwriting, but I have every reason to believe the signature on that cheque to be a forgery.”
“Excuse me,” said the manager. “Er—your authority—you are?”
“Inspector Freyberger, of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah!” He rang the bell and ordered the chief cashier to be called. “Mr S——,” said the manager, when that functionary appeared, “we have here a cheque of Sir Anthony Gyde’s; cast your eye upon it and tell me, would you cash it were it presented to you in the ordinary course of business?”
The chief cashier cast his eye over the cheque just once.
“I would cash it,” he replied.
“It is, in your opinion, the writing of Sir Anthony Gyde?”