The phrase struck Shelton as one that he had heard before.
“But I wrote to you,” he said; “did n't you get my letter?”
A flicker passed across the vagrant's face; he drew the letter from his pocket and held it out.
“Here it is, monsieur.”
Shelton stared at it.
“Surely,” said he, “I sent a cheque?”
Ferrand did not smile; there was a look about him as though Shelton by forgetting to enclose that cheque had done him a real injury.
Shelton could not quite hide a glance of doubt.
“Of course,” he said, “I—I—meant to enclose a cheque.”
Too subtle to say anything, Ferrand curled his lip. “I am capable of much, but not of that,” he seemed to say; and at once Shelton felt the meanness of his doubt.