Certainly not her father. And the bank would pay without a murmur. She seized a pen, prepared to act upon the impulse, then paused. She knew vaguely that it was a wrong thing to do. But—her own father! Indeed, her own money—for some of his wealth would be hers one day, and that day not very far distant. It was ridiculous to have scruples at such a time.
She cleverly filled in the words in a shaky hand, and added the two ciphers. She let the ink dry, and then surveyed her handiwork.
How her husband’s face would light up when she told him of their good fortune. Two thousand dollars! No, she could not imagine herself facing the rector’s gray eyes, and telling him an awful lie. It was bad enough to alter the check. She had heard of people who had been put in prison for altering checks!
Dick would take the check to the bank for her, 31 so that she need not face any inquisitive, staring clerks; and, when it was exchanged for notes, she would be able to get rid of the loathly creature sitting in the hall.
“Who presented this check?”
Vivian Ormsby, son of the banker, sat in his private room at Ormsby’s Bank, examining a check for two thousand dollars, and a cashier stood at his side. Vivian Ormsby had just looked in at the bank for a few minutes, and he was in a hurry.
“Young Mr. Swinton presented it, sir,” the cashier explained.
Vivian Ormsby’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the check more closely.
“Leave it with me,” he commanded, “and count out the notes.”