ded to the figures in
another ink. The forgery was discovered, and by Ormsby, too,
unfortunately, who is no friend of yours. The matter was hushed up, of
course. You have to thank Dora for that. A warrant was out for your
arrest, but Dora begged Ormsby to stay his hand for the sake of your
mother and father. And--er--well, the long and short of it is that Ormsby
was prepared to lose seven thousand dollars, rather than ruin your
family. The news of your death--your heroic death, as we imagined--came
at the opportune moment to help people to forget your folly."

Dick sat like a stone, calm, pale, holding his glass and listening
intently. For an instant he seemed about to faint.

"Of course, we all thought," continued the colonel, "that you had put
yourself into a tight corner on purpose, that you might respectably creep
out of your difficulties by dying and troubling nobody. And we respected
you for that. Everybody knew that you were up to your eyes in debt, and
at loggerheads with your grandfather, that the old man had disinherited
you, and all that. But surely you didn't owe seven thousand dollars!"

"Are you talking about the checks my mother gave me before I went away?"
Dick asked, quietly.

"Of course I am. You know the circumstances better than I do. It's no
good playing the fool with me, and I don't intend to have my daughter
upset by telegrams and surreptitious communications. So, now, you know.
You've done for yourself, my lad, and you'd better face it and remain
dead."

"But my mother--she has explained?"

"Of course, she has, and it's nearly broken her heart. Think of her awful
position, to have to confess that her son altered her checks--checks
actually drawn in her name--and the money filched from the bank by a
dirty trick! The bank's got to lose it. Your grandfather won't pay a
cent."

"But my mother--?" faltered Dick again, leaning forward heavily on the
table, and gazing at the colonel with eyes so full of horror that the
elder man wondered whether suffering had not turned Dick's brain.

"Ah, you may well ask about your mother. She tried to do her best, I
believe, to get your grandfather to pay up; but the shame of the thing is
what I look at. That's why I came to you here, to-day. If your mother
knows no more than Dora and all the rest--if they still think you're
dead--well, why not remain dead? It's only charity--it's only kind. Your
father and mother think that you died a hero's death, and, nat