“Forgery! Obtaining money by false pretences! Robbery! Holy Israel!—how much more do you want?”
“Not much more—thank you,” replied Philip, staggered into calmness. “Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to explain.”
“There isn’t much explanation needed,” snarled the other. “The last time you were in this office, you paid me a cheque for one thousand six hundred and twenty-six pounds, for accumulated interest, expenses, and other matters; because I had threatened that, unless I had that sum, by that date, I would come down on you, and sell you up. Now, you knew, Mr. Dandy Chater—and I knew—that you hadn’t any such sum of your own; therefore you came to me, bringing a cheque for the amount, on the same bank as your own, at Chelmsford, from a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw—the brother, so you told me, of the young lady you expected to marry.”
(“I’m glad I know who Arthur Barnshaw is,” thought Philip.)
“You told me a pretty story, about his having lent you the money, out of affection for his dear sister, and to keep the knowledge of your affairs from her ears. Now, Mr. Dandy Chater”—the man brought his hand down upon the desk with a bang, and became rather more red than before in the face—“perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that that cheque has been referred, on account of the signature, to Mr. Barnshaw himself; and that he unhesitatingly states that it is a forgery, and that he never drew any cheque, for any such amount.”
Philip Chater, utterly at a loss what to say, sat staring at the man helplessly. The opening of the door behind him, and a change of expression to something milder on the part of Mr. Isaacson’s countenance, caused him to turn his head.
A young man—at whom it was unnecessary to cast a second glance, to assure him that this was Madge’s brother—had entered the room; had stopped, on seeing Philip; and now came hesitatingly forward. He was younger than Philip—scarcely more, from his appearance, than a year or two the senior of his sister. He waved aside the man Isaacson, and said, in a low voice, to Philip—
“I say, old fellow—I’d like to have a word with you.” Then, as Philip rose, and walked with him towards a window, he added, in a low voice—“Look here, Dandy—I want to do the square thing; and I swear to you that, if I’d have known that this affair had anything to do with you, I should never have pressed my enquiries. But, you see, the cheque was made out to the order of that old shark at the desk there, and I never guessed—now, look here—you’ve got into a hole, old boy—but I’d like to pull you out of it, if I can. What can we do? You see, I’ve got to think, not only of you, but of Madge; it’ll be such an awful blow to her.”
Philip wondered whether anything could be a greater blow to her than the sight on which her eyes had rested in the wood. But he said nothing. His one desire, at the moment, was to get clear away; and to drop, as completely as possible, out of the life in which he had usurped a place. There was, too, a wholly foolish and ridiculous idea in his head, that he would not like this girl, who had kissed his lips, and had once believed in him—(or in his dead counterpart)—to have any worse opinion than she at that time cherished. As by an inspiration, he remembered that the notes he had received on the night of the meeting at “The Three Watermen” were still in his pocket. He determined to use them.
He explained briefly to Arthur—even while he expressed his regret—that he had unexpectedly received a considerable sum of money—the proceeds from some speculations, the shares in which had long lain useless. He suggested that it might be possible to bribe that worthy Hebrew at the desk.