Then they glared at each other through the smoke. Shield’s face with its shaggy hair always looked like that of a Scotch terrier, in which only the eyes give a hint of expression. Suddenly his hand was thrust out and grasped Philip’s with hearty satisfaction.
‘Right! Was sure of it without a word from you; but your brother is not sure that your signature is not genuine.’
‘Did he say so?’ (How the pale cheeks flushed with indignation at the thought that Coutts should admit the one signature to be a forgery, and doubt whether his was or not.)
‘Didn’t say it—looked it,’ answered Shield with jerky emphasis.
‘When did you see him?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Why did he not come to me then, as soon as he had seen you?’
‘Don’t know’—but there was a low guttural sound, as if Shield were inwardly chuckling with self-congratulation that he understood very well why Coutts had chosen to go to him and not to his brother.
Philip was annoyed and puzzled by this curious transaction. He had always regarded his brother as such a keen trader, that it was difficult to understand how a mistake of this magnitude could be made by him.
‘Did he say how he came to deal with a bill for so large an amount without mentioning it to me?’