CHAPTER XIII
THE FUR GOES OUT
Loseis and Paul Conacher sat on the great white bear rug before the fire. Said Loseis, concluding her tale:
“He gave me to understand through Moale, that he would stop at nothing.”
“The scoundrel!” muttered Conacher. “He was trying to terrorize you. In reality he cannot touch your rights here, unless you sign them away.”
“Sign?” said Loseis sharply. “I have signed my name four times on blank sheets of paper for Gault. I had clean forgotten that.” She described the circumstances.
“Obviously a trick,” said Conacher. “If you had known anything about banking methods, you would have seen through it.”
“I am so ignorant!” said Loseis humbly.
“How could you be expected to know!” said Conacher. He mused. “I wonder how in thunder he expects to use those signatures. . . . Were they at the top, in the middle or at the bottom of the sheets?”
“Towards the bottom,” said Loseis. “He pointed his finger, and I wrote.”
“Of course!” said Conacher. “Then he could fill in anything he wanted above your signature.”