“No, Mr. Swinton, nothing as trivial as that. I have just left Mr. Herresford at Asherton Hall, and he makes a very serious charge concerning two checks drawn by him, one for two thousand, the other for five thousand dollars. He declares that they are forgeries.”
“Forgeries! What do you mean?”
“To be more accurate, the checks have been altered. The first was originally for two dollars, the second for five dollars. These figures were altered into two thousand and five thousand. You will see, if you take them to the light, that the ink is different—”
“But what does all this signify?” asked the rector, fingering the checks idly. “Herresford doesn’t repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad.”
“He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your son, Mr. Richard Swinton, 115 and it’s Mr. Herresford’s opinion that the alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son—”
“But the checks are signed by Herresford!” cried Swinton, hotly. “This is some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It nearly landed me in bankruptcy.”
“But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration.”
“Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?”
A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a telegram.
A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers. Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face.