Vivian Ormsby’s illness dragged on from days into weeks. There was little or nothing to be done but nursing, and Dora took her share willingly. He was a very courteous, considerate person when the girl he loved was at his bedside, but very trying to the professional nurses. He insisted upon attending to business matters as soon as he recovered from his long period of unconsciousness, but the physicians strictly forbade visitors of any kind.

The patient was not allowed to read newspapers or hear news of the war. All excitement was barred, for it was one of the worst cases of concussion of the brain the specialists had ever known. Ormsby could not help watching Dora’s face in the mornings, when the papers arrived; he saw her hand tremble and her eyes grow dim as she read. When the first lists of killed and wounded came to hand, she read with ashen face and quivering lip, but, when the name she sought, and dreaded to find, was not there, the color came back, and she glowed again with the joy and pride of youth.

He allowed himself idly to imagine that this was 90 his home, and Dora his wife. It would always be like this—Dora at hand with her gentle, soothing touch upon his brow, her light, quick step, that he knew so well, and could distinguish in a moment from that of any other woman about the house, and her rich, penetrating voice, that never faltered, and carried even in a whisper, no matter how far away from his bedside. She laughed sometimes in talking to the nurses, finding it hard to restrain the natural vivacity of her temperament, and it hurt him when they hushed her down, and playfully ordered her from the room.

He loved to lie and watch her, and his great dark eyes at times exerted a kind of fascination. She avoided them, but could feel his gaze when she turned away, and was glad to escape. He loved her—there was no hiding the fact; and, when he was convalescent, and the time came for him to go away, he would declare it—if not before. The nurses discussed it between themselves, and speculated upon the chances. They knew that there was a rival, but he was far away, at the war—and he might never come back. The man on the spot had all the advantages on his side, the other all the love; it was interesting to the feminine mind to watch developments.

When there was talk of the patient getting up, he was increasingly irritable if Dora were away. One 91 day, he seized her hand, and carried it to his lips—dry, fevered lips that scorched her.

“You have been very good to me,” he murmured, in excuse for his presumption. And what could she say in rebuke that would not be churlish and ungracious?

At last, he was allowed to see Mr. Barnby, the manager at the bank, who came with a sheaf of letters and arrears of documents needing signature. The patient declared that he was not yet capable of attending to details, but he wanted to see the check signed by Herresford and presented by Dick Swinton.

“Which check?” asked Mr. Barnby; “the one for two thousand or the one for five thousand? I have them both.”

“There are two, then?”

Ormsby’s eyes glistened.

“Yes, with the same strange discoloration of the ink. This is the one; and I have brought the glass with me.”

Ormsby examined Mrs. Swinton’s second forgery under the magnifier, and was puzzled.

“The addition has been cleverly made. The writing seems to be the same. Whose handwriting is it—not Herresford’s?”

“It seems to be Mrs. Swinton’s. Compare it with these old checks in his pass-book, and you will see if 92 I am not right. She has drawn many checks for him and frequently altered them, but always with an initial.”

“Yes, the check was drawn by Mrs. Swinton in her father’s presence, no doubt; and young Swinton may have added the extra words and figures. An amazingly clever forgery! You say he had all the money?”

“No, not all—but nearly all of it has been withdrawn.”

“Then, he has robbed us of seven thousand dollars?”

“If the checks are forgeries, yes. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. If you doubted the first check—”

“The scoundrel! Go at once to Herresford. The old man must refund and make good the loss, or we are in a predicament.”

“I’ll go immediately. I suppose it is the young man’s work? It is impossible to conceive that Mrs. Swinton—his own daughter—”

“Don’t be a fool. Go to Herresford.”