“God be thanked!” said the stranger. “You lift a load from my mind. It was paid yesterday by one of our young clerks; but our attention was not called to it till to-day. On comparing it with your usual signature, we felt a doubt; and the cheque itself was unlike you. It was not crossed--it was drawn to nobody’s order; and it’s a considerable sum, Mr. Rowland--nothing to you--but to most people a considerable sum. If you say it’s all right, you will lift a load from my mind. It was young Farquhar that paid it--a fine young fellow. And his career would be spoiled----” These words came in a sort of strange mist to Rowland’s mind. He was standing all the time with the cheque in his hands, holding it to the light. Everything external was in a mist to him, both what he saw and what he heard. The very cheque, with that signature “James Rowland” sprawling on it as his own signature sprawled, seemed to float in the air. But within his mind, everything was acute and clear--a great anguish rending him as with a serpent’s fangs--a dart through all his veins, dull in his heart like a stone, violent in his head, as if all the blood had gone there to throb and knell in his ears, and beat like a hammer in his temples. All the time he was standing with his back to the ill-omened messenger, holding the cheque as if he were examining it, in his hands. His voice, when he spoke, had a dull and thick sound, and he did not turn round, but remained as if fixed in that position, with the cheque stretched out in both his hands, and his head bent to get the light upon it. “I needn’t trouble you any more,” he said; “the cheque’s--all right. It was drawn for a special purpose; it is nothing to me, as you say.” Here he broke into a hoarse laugh. “Nothing to me! What’s a thousand pounds in comparison with----. You can relieve your friend, young Farquhar’s mind. Young Farquhar, is that his name? But he ought to be more careful. That’s a large sum to pay to bearer over the counter without any guarantee. But he did quite right--quite right--my name’s enough for many a thousand pounds.” He moved from where he was standing to ring the bell, but did not turn round. Then he went back to the lamp and pushed the shade lower down. “I’ll keep the cheque,” he said, “to remind me not to do such a thing again. Saunders, will you take this gentleman into the dining-room, and see that he has some supper before he goes. I don’t know your name,” he added, turning upon the stranger and putting out his hand, “but I highly approve your energy in coming, and I’ll take care to say so to the directors.” “My name is Fergusson--and I’m very glad of your approval, Mr. Rowland: and the night journey will be nothing, for I am going back with a light heart.”