Evan began to get hot. "That is my custom," he said quietly.
Notwithstanding his pompous air the younger Deaves was visibly nervous; he had not his father's force of character. "It is useless for you to feign innocence," he said.
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Evan.
Deaves said: "I may as well let you know I have a policeman waiting down-stairs."
There is no man however sure of himself that would not be to some degree disconcerted by this announcement. Evan changed colour. Deaves, quick to notice it, smiled disagreeably, and Evan's cheeks grew hot indeed.
"Have him up-stairs," said Evan. "I don't know what this flummery is all about. Hand me over to the police and maybe I'll find out."
"Give me a specimen of your handwriting," said Deaves, shoving writing materials towards him.
"Certainly," said Evan. "I have no reason to be ashamed of it."
"Write five thousand dollars, first in figures, then spelled out."
Evan did so, and shoved the paper back. Deaves compared it with a letter which lay in front of him, the old man peering over his shoulder.