"You--you might prove the forgery; but how could you connect me with it?" "Not bad, that. But I'm ready for you. People at the bank will prove you had the money; and taken in connection with the other little business, which is well known, and which there are lots of people to prove, a jury would convict at once." Sir Charles Mitford shuddered, and buried his face in his hands. Then, looking up, said: "How much do you want for that bill?" "Well, you see, that's scarcely the question. It's in the hands of a man who don't know its value, and if he did he'd open his mouth pretty wide, and stick it on pretty stiff, I can tell you. So we can let him bide a bit. Meantime I know about it, and, as Tony told me, I intend to make it serve me. Now you want to get rid of me, and don't want to see me for some little time? I thought so. I'm not an extravagant cove; give me fifty pounds." "Until that bill is destroyed, you will wring money from me when you choose." "If you refused me money and I cut up rough, the bill should be produced, and you'd be in quod and Queer Street in a jiffy! Better do as I say--give me the fifty, and you shan't see me for a blue moon!" Whether Sir Charles was stimulated by the period named or not, it is certain he sat down at his desk, and producing his cheque-book, began to write. Mr. Effingham looked over his shoulder. "Make it payable to some number--295, or anything--not a name, please. And you needn't cross it. Lord! you didn't take much trouble to disguise your fist when you put Walter Bur--, beg pardon! quite forgot what I was saying. Thank you, Sir Charles. I'll keep my word all right, you shall see. I'm not an idle beggar; I'm always at something; so that I shan't depend entirely on this bit of gray paper; but it'll ease my springs and grease my wheels a bit. Good-day to you, Sir Charles. Never mind ringing for that solemn cove to let me out; I ain't proud. Good-day." Mr. Effingham gave a very elaborate bow, and departed. As the door shut upon him, Sir Charles Mitford pulled his chair to the fire, and fell into a deep reverie, out of which he did not rouse himself until his wife's return. CHAPTER VIII. KISMET.