That well practised vision, that sharp witted perception was not to be deceived. The astounding, stunning truth miraculously flashed upon his senses, that the paper he held within his grasp was no true genuine bank-note on the firm of Maynard, Trevor and Co., but that it was forged.
One moment after, and Eugene Trevor felt a sharp nervous grasp laid upon his arm. He started violently, and the terrified ashy countenance he turned towards his father, would at once have convicted him in the eye of the beholder of any capital offence of which he might have been suspected.
"Wretched boy, what have you done?" gasped the father, as with one hand maintaining his hold on the culprit's arm, with the other he held the accusing note before his shrinking eye, glaring at the same time fearfully upon him. "This—this—" in accents tremulous between rage and horror, "I know, I feel convinced, is forged!"
The son sat pale and trembling, but attempted not a word of explanation or denial.
"And the others—the same?"
They were passively yielded for inspection. All—all—alike!
"Do you wished to be hanged, Sir?" almost shrieked the father.
"I must have money—those might have passed for such."
"Might?—yes, and you might, I say, be hanged."
"Well, if I were hanged, what then? Life's not worth having without money," was the dark and moody rejoinder.