uncle's signature. It was a poor thing at the best. 'But it must do,' said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. 'He's dead anyway.' And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.
There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business, and with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even scrutinised the signature with a magnifying glass, his surprise appeared to warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he passed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior, an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.
'Mr. Morris Finsbury, I believe,' said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris with a pair of double eye-glasses.
'That is my name,' said Morris, quavering. 'Is there anything wrong?'
'Well, the fact is, Mr. Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at receiving this,' said the other, flicking at the cheque. 'There are no effects.'
'No effects?' cried Morris. 'Why, I know myself
