“You do presume, sir.”
Poor Mr. Barnby was in a perspiration. The keen, little old man was besting and flurrying him; he was no match for this irascible invalid.
“Then, sir, I take it, that you wish us to prosecute your grandson—who is at the war.”
“Prosecute whom you like, sir, but don’t come here pretending that you’re not responsible for the acts of fraudulent swindlers.”
“It has been fought out over and over again, and I believe never settled satisfactorily.”
“Then, it is settled this time—unless you wish me to withdraw my account from your bank instantly—I’m the best customer you’ve got. Prosecute, sir—prosecute. Have him home from the war, and fling him into jail.”
“Of course, sir, we have no actual evidence that the forgery was made by the young man, although he—er—presented the checks, and pursued an unusual course. He took the amount in notes. The second amount he took partly in notes, and paid the rest into his account, which has since gone down to a few dollars. Of course, it may have been done by—er—someone 99 else. It is a difficult matter to decide who—er—that is who actually made the alterations. We have not yet brought the matter to the notice of Mrs. Swinton. She may be able to explain—”
“What! Do you mean to insinuate that my daughter—my daughter—sir, would be capable of a low, cunning forgery?”
“I insinuate nothing, sir. But mothers will sometimes condone the faults of their sons, and—er—it would be difficult, if she were to say—”
“Let me tell you that the two checks were signed by me for two and for five dollars, and given into the hands of my daughter. If she was fool enough to let them pass into the clutches of her rascally son, she must take the consequences, and remember, sir, you’ll get no money out of me. I’ll have my seven thousand, every penny.”