So he left the room, and, as Will had come in, the two men had a long consultation over this strange letter.
"You need not remain long in suspense, sir," said Will; "write me out a cheque for fifty pounds, and I will take it down to the bank."
"But I have none of the printed cheques of the bank."
"You don't need one. That is a vulgar error. Any bit of paper with a stamp on it will do."
"But they must know that my signature is genuine."
"True. You must come down with me and see the manager. In any case, we can bear the disappointment, if the thing is a hoax. When you have ascertained that you are a rich man, father, I'll give you another piece of good news."
Mrs. Anerley was left with Dove, and the two men drove off to the bank. The manager had expected the visit. He warded off Will's bold inquiries with a grave silence; he had received certain instructions—it was not his business to say from whom.
"Before I can avail myself of this money," said Mr. Anerley, "you must at least answer me one question. Was it placed in your hands by Frederick Hubbard—by Count Schönstein?"
"No."
"Thank you."