The Seraph looked a little bored, a little amused.
“Well, ask it, my good fellow; you have your opportunity!” he said impatiently, yet good-humored still.
“Then would you, my lord,” continued the Jew with his strong Hebrew-German accent, “be so good as to favor me by saying whether this signature be your own?”
The Jew held before him a folded paper, so folded that one line only was visible, across which was dashed in bold characters, “Rockingham.”
The Seraph put up his eye-glass, stopped, and took a steadfast look; then shook his head.
“No; that is not mine; at least, I think not. Never made my R half a quarter so well in my life.”
“Many thanks, my lord,” said Baroni quietly. “One question more and we can substantiate the fact. Did your lordship indorse any bill on the 15th of last month?”
The Seraph looked surprised, and reflected a moment. “No, I didn't,” he said after a pause. “I have done it for men, but not on that day; I was shooting at Hornsey Wood most of it, if I remember right. Why do you ask?”
“I will tell you, my lord, if you grant me a private interview.”
The Seraph moved away. “Never do that,” he said briefly; “private interviews,” thought he, acting on past experience, “with women always mean proposals, and with men always mean extortion.”