ff nice and clear from
an unwilling client or witness. We give him a fright, or we treat him to
a joke. I treated Mr. Frank to a joke.

"Ah!" says I, "I know what he did. He had a signature to write; and, by
the most natural mistake in the world, he wrote another gentleman's name
instead of his own--eh?"

"It was to a bill," says Mr. Frank, looking very crestfallen, instead
of taking the joke. "His principal creditor wouldn't wait till he could
raise the money, or the greater part of it. But he was resolved, if he
sold off everything, to get the amount and repay--"

"Of course," says I, "drop that. The forgery was discovered. When?"

"Before even the first attempt was made to negotiate the bill. He had
done the whole thing in the most absurdly and innocently wrong way. The
person whose name he had used was a stanch friend of his, and a relation
of his wife's--a good man as well as a rich one. He had influence with
the chief creditor, and he used it nobly. He had a real affection for
the unfortunate man's wife, and he proved it generously."

"Come to the point," says I. "What did he do? In a business way, what
did he do?"

"He put the false bill into the fire, drew a bill of his own to replace
it, and then--only then--told my dear girl and her mother all that had
happened. Can you imagine anything nobler?" asks Mr. Frank.

"Speaking in my professional capacity, I can't imagine anything
greener," says I. "Where was the father? Off, I suppose?"

"Ill in bed," says Mr. Frank, coloring. "But he mustered strength enough
to write a contrite and grateful letter the same day, promising to prove
himself worthy of the noble moderation and forgiveness extended to him,
by selling off everything he possessed to repay his money debt. He
did sell off everything, down to some old family pictures that were
heirlooms; down to the little plate he had; down to the very tables and
chairs that furnished his drawing-room. Every farthing of the debt
was paid; and he was left to begin the world again, with the kindest
promises of help from the generous man who had forgiven him. It was
too late. His crime of one rash moment--atoned for though it had
been--preyed upon his mind. He became possessed with the idea that he
had lowered himself forever in the estimation of his wife and daughter,
and--"

"He died," I cut in. "Yes, yes, we know that. Let's go back for a minute
to the contrite and grateful letter that he wrote. My experience in