She took up with a young fellow of about her own age who had about as little prospects as she had, and with the rent paid for three months in advance and just enough ready money to keep them going that long, they cast care to the winds and proceeded to enjoy themselves. One night, when the funds were getting to a low ebb, she, while ransacking a desk for a mislaid letter, found a half-used check-book which had belonged to her elderly protector.
“I could sign his name better than he could himself,” she remarked, “and I’ve done it, too.”
“Do you think we could swing one of them now?” said the man, sitting up straight as the inspiration came to him.
“Why, that’s absurd; he’s dead.”
“I know he’s dead all right. But fill one out for $75 and I’ll see what I can do with it.”
It was an easy trick for her, and in a moment she had handed him the paper.
“If I lay this, little girl,” he remarked as he went out, “we’re on the sunny side of Easy street for the rest of our lives.”
That heritage of brain stood her in good stead while he was away, and before he had returned she evolved a scheme that was worthy of a better cause.
It was this:
She would send him out to rob a letter box; they would open the mail thus stolen and search it for checks. She would copy the signature, make note of the bank, get blank checks of that institution and then commit the forgery.