Fitz followed his mother into the banker's private office. Mrs. Wittleworth herself was not entirely satisfied with the situation. She was not at all sure that Marguerite had not died of cholera ten years before. Mr. Checkynshaw's course rather indicated that he was playing a deep game. Why did he want a quitclaim deed, if his rights were clear? Why had he forged a letter from Marguerite, when he must have real ones, if the daughter was still living? And it was not like him to give ten thousand dollars to a person who had no claim upon him.
The poor woman's circumstances were desperate. Want or the almshouse stared her in the face. It was possible, nay, it was probable, that Mr. Checkynshaw was deceiving her; that Marguerite was dead, and that the block of stores rightfully belonged to her; but she had no chances of success in fighting a battle with wealth and influence. If she brought the suit, the ten thousand dollars would certainly be lost, and the chances of obtaining the block of stores were all against her. The money the banker would pay her would keep her from want for the rest of her lifetime. The income of it would support her little family comfortably.
"I will sign the deed, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, walking up to the desk where the banker sat.
"Why did you bring that boy with you?" asked the great man, with a look of contempt at his late clerk.
"He insisted upon coming."
"I think I have an interest in this business," replied Fitz, loftily. "I will be civil, Mr. Checkynshaw, but I should like to ask you one or two questions."
"You needn't."
"But I will. Why do you give my mother a letter purporting to come from your daughter Marguerite, which was written by Miss Maggimore? That's the first question I want to ask," said Fitz, with the air of a conqueror.
The banker was a little startled; but he did not lose his self-possession—he seldom did in merely business transactions.
"The letter I gave you was a true copy, Ellen," said he.