There was no need to read the letter twice through. Already he knew every word, every comma. He stood blinking at his reflection, and then went into the outer office. He found Kenneth collecting some personal belongings from his desk. “I suppose the inspector came about the Wentford cheque?” he said. The young man looked round at him. “Wentford cheque? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t mean the cheque I cashed for the woman?” It required an effort on the manager’s part to affirm this. “What was wrong with it?” “It was forged, that is all.” “Forged?” Kenneth frowned at him. “Yes… didn’t the inspector say anything? He left a letter for me, didn’t he?” Kenneth shook his head. “No. He was surprised to find that you weren’t here. I told him you had gone up to the head office. I’m getting a bit sick of lying about you. What is the yarn about this cheque?” Again it required a painful effort on the manager’s part to speak. “It was forged. You’ve to report to head office to-morrow morning… some of the banknotes have been traced to you… the cheque was out of your office book.” It was out, yet he felt no relief. McKay was looking at him open-mouthed. “You mean the cheque that was changed by that woman?” The word “woman” irritated Mr. Kingfether. “A lady was supposed to have called, a veiled lady----” “What do you mean by ‘supposed’?” demanded Kenneth. “You say that the notes were traced to me--I issued them: is that what you mean?” “You have them--some of them--in your private possession; that’s all.” Incredulity showed in Kenneth’s face. “_I?_ You mean that I stole them?” Kingfether had reached the limit of endurance. “How the hell do I know what you did?” he almost shouted. “Head office have written to say that some of the notes you paid over the counter have been traced through a moneylender named Stuart to you.” The young man’s face changed suddenly. “Stuart… oh!” was all that he said. A moment later he went blundering out of the side door, leaving Mr. Kingfether to continue his aimless scribblings on his blotting-pad. Kenneth reached Marlow just before the dinner hour, and he came into the study where old George McKay was usually to be found, working out his eternal combinations. To Kenneth’s amazement, his father greeted him with a smile. Instead of the cards, his table was covered with packages of documents and the paraphernalia of correspondence. “Hullo, son--we’ve had a stroke of luck. The arbitrators have decided in my favour. I knew jolly well I hadn’t parted with my rights in the dyeing process when I sold out, and the company has to pay close on a hundred thousand back royalties.” Kenneth knew of this wrangle between his father and his late company that had gone on through the years, but he had never paid very much attention to it. “That means a steady income for years, and this time I’m going to look after things--here!”