“Dent 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 to-day,” 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 inquiringly.
“And—and—” resumed Morris, “even if there were no effects—this is a very trifling sum to overdraw—our firm—the name of Finsbury, is surely good enough for such a wretched sum as this.”