The vehicle had, indeed, stopped abruptly before the house. They heard some one alight on the pavement, a latchkey was thrust into the door. “It’s Clement!” the banker exclaimed, his eyes on the door. “I hope he does not bring bad news! Well, lad?” as Clement in his overcoat, his hat on his head, appeared in the doorway. “What is it? Is anything wrong?”
“Very much wrong!” his son replied curtly, and he closed the door behind him. He was pale, and his splashed coat and neck-shawl tied awry, no less than his agitated face, confirmed their fears.
“Out with it, lad! What is it? his father asked, fearing he knew not what.
“Bad news, sir!” was the answer. “I’m sorry to say I bring very bad news!”
“What?”
“That loan of Mr. Griffin’s——”
“The twelve thousand? Yes?”—anxiously—“well?”
“It’s a fraud, sir! A cursed fraud!”
There was a tense silence. Then, “Impossible!” the banker exclaimed. But he grasped a chair to steady himself. His face had turned grey.
“The Squire knows nothing of it!” Clement struck his open hand on the back of a chair. “He never signed the transfer! He never gave any authority for the loan!”