‘By your uncle himself, sir,’ continued the other. ‘Not only that, but we discounted a bill for him for—let me see—how much was it for, Mr Bell?’
‘Eight hundred, Mr Judkin,’ replied the teller.
‘Bent Pitman!’ cried Morris, staggering back.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Judkin.
‘It’s—it’s only an expletive,’ said Morris.
‘I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mr Finsbury,’ said Mr Bell.
‘All I can tell you,’ said Morris, with a harsh laugh,’ is that the whole thing’s impossible. My uncle is at Bournemouth, unable to move.’
‘Really!’ cried Mr Bell, and he recovered the cheque from Mr Judkin. ‘But this cheque is dated in London, and today,’ he observed. ‘How d’ye account for that, sir?’
‘O, that was a mistake,’ said Morris, and a deep tide of colour dyed his face and neck.
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Judkin, but he looked at his customer enquiringly.