Yes, Rodney did see. It was a glorious scheme, a splendid revenge. His rival and enemy, Dean Mercer, would be disgraced--he would roll in riches! It would be believed that Dean himself had drawn the money at the bank. He, Rodney, was not known there. Still, he determined to act cautiously. When, an hour later, he started for the bank, he had got Dean Mercer’s signature down to perfection, and he had bought a pair of spectacles and tried to throw into his face as much of false expression as was possible, so as to make his features vague to the cashier, in view of a later identification. The bank was a large and a busy one. The cashier accepted the check and Judge Oglesby’s letter carelessly, glanced at them and said: “Glad to know you, Mr. Mercer. How will you have the money?” Then, as the false Dean Mercer, in a smothered tone of voice, stated that he would take it in bills of a large denomination, the cashier waved him to the paying teller, and passed on to the next customer of the bank as carelessly as if the payment of eight thousand dollars was a mere bagatelle in the immense affairs of the great Atlas Bank. Rodney’s heart beat like a trip hammer as he thrust the big pile of bills into his pocket and turned away to leave the bank. He realized that he was a thief, a forger, as wicked as Tim Downey. Yes, worse, for he knew better. Tim had been brought up in the midst of sin. “Mr. Mercer,” called out one of the bank officials, coming forward to the cashier’s window, “that’s a fine steamer you have had built.” “Yes, sir,” faltered Rodney. “I have been down to see her this morning, and I assure you there was never her equal on Lake Seneca. Colonel Darringford’s old tub will be nowhere now. Well, it is time some one woke up to the situation.” Rodney’s heart was in his mouth, and fairly gasping for breath, he did not dare to make a reply, but he hurried out into the open air with quickened steps. Chancing to glance down the street he received another shock greater than the first. Crossing the main street he saw Dean Mercer! CHAPTER IX. TIM DEMANDS HIS DUES. Rodney Darringford was never so frightened in his life. He was puzzled, too. Was it possible the _Spray_ had not been burned after what Tim had said? The man in the bank had certainly spoken honestly, and he said he had been on board that morning. If further proof was needed, the fact that Dean Mercer was alive furnished it. Rodney hastened in the direction of the hotel, not daring to look to the right or left. His hand in his pocket, he held fast to his ill-gotten gains, wishing he had never seen it, and yet determined to hold on to it. Tim was waiting for him expectantly at the room at the hotel. “Got it?” he demanded breathlessly. “Yes,” gasped Rodney, pale and unnerved. “All of it?” “Every dollar.” “Glory! We’re, we’re millionaires! You and I will divide even. What’s the trouble with ye?” In a few words Rodney told what he had heard and seen.