." Mordaunt pulled out a bunch of keys with the words. "Let me have a
look at my cheque-book. You know where it is."

Yes, Bertrand knew. He was as cognizant of the whereabouts of Mordaunt's
possessions as if they had been his own, and he had as free an access to
them. Such was the confidence reposed in him.

He took the keys, selected the right one, stooped to fit it into the
lock. And then suddenly something happened. A violent tremor went through
him. He clutched at the table-edge, and the keys clattered to the ground.

"Hullo!" Mordaunt said.

Bertrand was staring downwards with eyes that saw not. At the sound of
Mordaunt's voice he started, and began to grope on the floor for the keys
as if stricken blind.

"There they are, man, by your feet." Mordaunt stooped and recovered them
himself. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"

Bertrand lifted a ghastly face. "I am quite well," he said. "But--but
surely the bank would not cash a cheque so large without reference to
you!"

Mordaunt looked at him a moment. "I have been in the habit of drawing
large sums," he said. "But I usually write a note to the bank to
accompany a cheque of this sort."

He turned to the drawer and unlocked it. His cheque-book lay in its
accustomed place within. He took it out and commenced a careful
examination of the counterfoils of cheques already drawn.

Bertrand sat quite motionless, with bowed head. He seemed to be numbly
waiting for something.

Mordaunt was very deliberate in his search. He came to the end of the
counterfoils only, but went quietly on through the sheaf of blank cheques
that remained, gravely scrutinizing each.

Minutes passed. Bertrand was sunk in his chair as one bent beneath some
overpowering weight, the pile of letters untouched before him.

Suddenly Mordaunt paused, became tense for an instant, then slowly
relaxed. His eyes travelled from the open cheque-book to the man in the
chair. He contemplated him silently.

After the lapse of several seconds, he laid the open book upon the table
before him. "A cheque has been abstracted here," he said.

His voice was perfectly quiet. He made the statement as if there were
nothing extraordinary in it, as if he felt assured that there must be
some perfectly simple explanation to account for it, as if, in fact, he
scarcely recognized the existence of any mystery.

But Bertrand uttered not a word. He was as one turned to stone. His eyes
became fixed upon the cheque in