On the morning following Mr. Brooks’s interview with the senior partner at his private residence, George, on his arrival at the office, was instantly despatched on a commission which would keep him out of the way till twelve o’clock.

Exactly at eleven, the time appointed by the senior partner, a gentleman arrived at the office—the said office being on the second floor of a particularly dingy house in Gutter Lane.

It was not the elegant Mr. Marston who entered the little room with ‘Smith and Co. (Temporary Office)’ pasted across the door—that is, if one might judge by appearances. The gentleman who came in and accosted Mr. Brooks in a familiar manner was a German-looking gentleman, with the black silk square-looking cap which gives such a round appearance to the face, and the peak of which comes down over the eyes like a shade. The clothes he wore were German in cut, and the tight military trousers dropping well over the Wellington boots were unmistakable; and, to complete the character, there was the signet-ring on the first finger of the left hand. He carried an overcoat across his shoulder, German fashion, and carefully tucked under his arm was the red Baedeker, without which no German feels himself safe in the mighty City of London. Opening the door cautiously, the German gentleman peeped in.

‘Ees dis de ofeece of Herr Gutzeit?’ he asked politely.

‘Rumbo,’ was the strange answer returned by Mr. Brooks. ‘Rumbo, guv’nor; I’m alone.’

How on earth Mr. Brooks could expect a German gentleman to understand English slang I don’t know, but the German gentleman evidently did, for he stepped inside and closed the door.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be alone,’ he said, as he turned the key, ‘so I thought it best to keep up the character.’

‘You make a fine German sausage, Marston,’ answered Mr. Brooks, regarding his visitor, with admiration. ‘Blest if it don’t make me want some sauerkraut to look at you. But you didn’t come down the Camden Road that guy, did you?’

‘No,’ answered Marston, for he it was; ‘I wore my coat over the costume, and left my hat to be blocked coming along. But, business, business. Where’s this young Smith?’

‘He’s gone out—won’t be back till twelve.’

‘Well, we’ll have the cheque done by then. Grigg and Limpet remitted at once. Look here.’

Mr. Marston pulled out his pocket-book, and drew from it a cheque, which he showed to Mr. Brooks. It was Grigg and Limpet’s cheque for £100.

‘Capital!’ exclaimed Brooks. ‘By Jove! it was a splendid dodge, Marston. About the cheapest way of getting a signature to copy I ever heard of. I’m ready; sit down.’

The pair of worthies sat down.

Mr. Brooks, producing the stolen cheque-book from his pocket, tore out a cheque and placed it side by side with Grigg and Limpet’s genuine draft for £100.

‘How much shall we make it?’

‘£500,’ answered Marston. ‘Less won’t pay us for the trouble we’ve taken.’

‘Is there sure to be enough to meet it:’

‘Certain; they always keep a big balance. I’ve ascertained that.’

Mr. Brooks proceeded to fill up the blank cheque for £500, imitating exactly the style of writing in the body of the genuine cheque. That was his part of the work. When that was done, and only the signature required, he handed both cheques over to Marston.

That gentleman then subjected them to an ingenious process, into the details of which, from motives of prudence, it will be perhaps, as well not to enter.

Neither spoke during the operation. When it was finished, Marston lifted the genuine cheque, and handed it to Brooks.

‘Look!’ he said.

Brooks turned it over and glanced at the back.

‘Not a mark on it!’ he said, after examining it carefully.

‘Now look at the forgery.’

Mr. Brooks took the duplicate cheque and looked at it closely.

‘Why, there’s no signature at all!’ he said. ‘What’s the use of this?’

‘That’s just the beauty of this process, my dear fellow,’ exclaimed Marston. ‘The old transfer business was clumsy, and almost sure to be found out. This, on the contrary, is elegant and defies detection. The man who invented this process made a fortune in America.’

‘Why didn’t he come over here?’

‘He met with an accident,’ said Marston, laughing. ‘He was shot in a drunken row. It was by the merest fluke that I got to know this process. I thought it might be useful some day.’

‘But I don’t quite see the use of it,’ urged Mr. Brooks, still gazing anxiously at the apparently unsigned cheque.

Marston took it from him, and drew from his pocket a little box containing a fine white powder. This powder he spread over the lower part of the cheque till it completely covered it.

He left it so for a few minutes, then he took the cheque up and emptied the powder back into the box passing his fingers carefully down the paper to see that not a grain remained.

‘Now look at it,’ he exclaimed.

Mr. Brooks did look, and he was delighted at what he saw.

A faint violet signature was at the bottom of the cheque. It was perfect. Every dot, every line.

‘I guess the rest,’ he said. ‘Any special ink wanted?’

‘None,’ answered Marston. ‘Fire away.’

Mr. Brooks did fire away. He went carefully over the faint violet outline with a pen and ink, and when he had finished and the signature was dry, he put the two cheques side by side, and dapped his thigh with delight.

‘By Jove, Marston, it’s perfect; the money’s in our pocket.’

‘Not yet,’ answered Marston; ‘but it soon will be. What time will your clerk be back? We ought to send him to cash it at once. I shall cash the genuine one first, in case of accidents.’

Mr. Brooks’s face suddenly fell.

‘H’m!’ he said, ‘that’s awkward, too. I forgot to tell you, but the rummest thing in the world occurred yesterday. When I got back after seeing you, I gave Smith a note for Grigg and Limpet, with the money in it, to take at once. “Grigg and Limpet,” he says, looking at the address, “why that’s where my landlord is.” Of course I asked him a question or two then, and it turns out this greenhorn of mine is lodging with a man named Duck, one of Grigg and Limpet’s clerks.’

‘That’s awkward. He may have said something already,’ said Marston, looking grave.

‘Not he; he’s a gentleman,’ answered Mr. Brooks; ‘so I knew how to tackle him. “Mr. Smith,” I said, “you occupy a post of confidence with the firm, which will lead, I hope, one day to great things. I need hardly tell you, Mr. Smith, that, in our business, confidence between employer and employed is necessary. I trust you do not talk with your landlord about the business of the firm?”

‘He stammered and blushed, and said he might have said something, but not lately. I told him to take the note and put it in the firm’s letter-box and come away, but on no account to mention to any one from whom he came, and not to breathe a word to his landlord that our firms had business together. He promised.’

‘But how do you know he didn’t?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr. Brooks, ‘he’s as honest and innocent as a baby. I’d trust him with anything. He kept his word, I’ll swear; but still I don’t think, under the circumstances, it will be advisable to send him to cash Grigg and Limp et’s cheque.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Marston; ‘and what’s more, you must get him away from here at once, and away from his lodgings. He’s a link, and I hate links. Directly a link is established, if a clever man doesn’t find it, a fool will blunder on to it. He must be got out of the way at once.’

Mr. Brooks recognised the necessity of removing the ‘link’ at once. Duck would be sure to hear of the forgery on his masters, and George’s very greenness might furnish a clue to the whole thing at any moment.

‘In the mean time,’ asked Marston, pacing the room impatiently, ‘who’s going to cash this cheque? Will you?’

Mr. Brooks hesitated, and humm’d and ha’d. It might be dangerous. He might be detained, and he had no idea of being detained. If George had been detained it wouldn’t have mattered.

They would all have time to clear out. No; on consideration it wouldn’t do at all for him to take the cheque.

They were on the horns of a dilemma now, and it was necessary to act at once. The person presenting the cheque must be a gentlemanly person to inspire confidence, and there wasn’t one of the regular gang they could trust.

Suddenly Marston brought his fist down on the table.

‘I have it,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s only one way. This follow must present the cheque and bring the money back to you.’

‘Yes; but suppose he talks about it to Grigg and Limpet’s clerk when he goes home?’

‘He won’t talk about it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You most not give him the cheque till to-morrow to present. By that time I shall have arranged everything.’

‘You can’t stop him talking.’

‘No, but I can stop him ever going back to Duck’s again.’