Exactly at eleven, the time appointed by the senior partner, a gentleman arrived at the office—the said office being on the second floor of a particularly dingy house in Gutter Lane. It was not the elegant Mr. Marston who entered the little room with ‘Smith and Co. (Temporary Office)’ pasted across the door—that is, if one might judge by appearances. The gentleman who came in and accosted Mr. Brooks in a familiar manner was a German-looking gentleman, with the black silk square-looking cap which gives such a round appearance to the face, and the peak of which comes down over the eyes like a shade. The clothes he wore were German in cut, and the tight military trousers dropping well over the Wellington boots were unmistakable; and, to complete the character, there was the signet-ring on the first finger of the left hand. He carried an overcoat across his shoulder, German fashion, and carefully tucked under his arm was the red Baedeker, without which no German feels himself safe in the mighty City of London. Opening the door cautiously, the German gentleman peeped in. ‘Ees dis de ofeece of Herr Gutzeit?’ he asked politely. ‘Rumbo,’ was the strange answer returned by Mr. Brooks. ‘Rumbo, guv’nor; I’m alone.’ How on earth Mr. Brooks could expect a German gentleman to understand English slang I don’t know, but the German gentleman evidently did, for he stepped inside and closed the door. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be alone,’ he said, as he turned the key, ‘so I thought it best to keep up the character.’ ‘You make a fine German sausage, Marston,’ answered Mr. Brooks, regarding his visitor, with admiration. ‘Blest if it don’t make me want some sauerkraut to look at you. But you didn’t come down the Camden Road that guy, did you?’ ‘No,’ answered Marston, for he it was; ‘I wore my coat over the costume, and left my hat to be blocked coming along. But, business, business. Where’s this young Smith?’ ‘He’s gone out—won’t be back till twelve.’ ‘Well, we’ll have the cheque done by then. Grigg and Limpet remitted at once. Look here.’ Mr. Marston pulled out his pocket-book, and drew from it a cheque, which he showed to Mr. Brooks. It was Grigg and Limpet’s cheque for £100. ‘Capital!’ exclaimed Brooks. ‘By Jove! it was a splendid dodge, Marston. About the cheapest way of getting a signature to copy I ever heard of. I’m ready; sit down.’ The pair of worthies sat down. Mr. Brooks, producing the stolen cheque-book from his pocket, tore out a cheque and placed it side by side with Grigg and Limpet’s genuine draft for £100. ‘How much shall we make it?’ ‘£500,’ answered Marston. ‘Less won’t pay us for the trouble we’ve taken.’ ‘Is there sure to be enough to meet it:’ ‘Certain; they always keep a big balance. I’ve ascertained that.’