"I am; and if the paper was ready, I would sign it this moment. Will you let me take this letter home with me, Mr. Checkynshaw?"
"Certainly, Ellen," replied the banker, graciously.
"I used to read French a little when I was a girl, and I may be able to study out some of it."
"As you like; but when you come again, don't bring that boy with you."
Mrs. Wittleworth and her son retired. On their way home, an angry discussion ensued. Fitz raved at the weakness of women in general, and of his mother in particular; but she firmly declared, even if she was satisfied that Marguerite was not living, she would sign the deed. In the house, both of them examined the letter. Fitz did not know a word of French, and his mother could only make out "Mon cher père," and an occasional word in the letter.
"I will tell you what we can do, mother. André Maggimore, round in Phillimore Court, is a Frenchman, and can talk French like a Dutchman."
"But he is very sick, you said."
"So he is. Well, his daughter Maggie can read it. I will take it to her this evening."
After supper, Fitz, with the letter in his pocket, started for the barber's house.