person who had no claim upon him.

The poor woman's circumstances were desperate. Want or the almshouse
stared her in the face. It was possible, nay, it was probable, that Mr.
Checkynshaw was deceiving her; that Marguerite was dead, and that the
block of stores rightfully belonged to her; but she had no chances of
success in fighting a battle with wealth and influence. If she brought
the suit, the ten thousand dollars would certainly be lost, and the
chances of obtaining the block of stores were all against her. The
money the banker would pay her would keep her from want for the rest of
her lifetime. The income of it would support her little family
comfortably.

"I will sign the deed, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, walking up to the
desk where the banker sat.

"Why did you bring that boy with you?" asked the great man, with a look
of contempt at his late clerk.

"He insisted upon coming."

"I think I have an interest in this business," replied Fitz, loftily.
"I will be civil, Mr. Checkynshaw, but I should like to ask you one or
two questions."

"You needn't."

"But I will. Why do you give my mother a letter purporting to come from
your daughter Marguerite, which was written by Miss Maggimore? That's
the first question I want to ask," said Fitz, with the air of a
conqueror.

The banker was a little startled; but he did not lose his
self-possession--he seldom did in merely business transactions.

"The letter I gave you was a true copy, Ellen," said he.

"It makes but little difference to me whether it was a true copy or
not," she added.

"The originals of Marguerite's letters were in my safe, and were stolen
with other papers. If your son knows Pilky Wayne, he may be able to
recover them."

"I scorn the insinuation, Mr. Checkynshaw," replied Fitz, indignantly.

"I speak a little French, Ellen, but I do not read it very readily; and
I had translations made of Marguerite's letters," continued Mr.
Checkynshaw, without noticing the irate young man. "One of these
translations I had rendered back into the French rather to give
employment to the barber's daughter than for any other reason."

Mrs. Wittleworth felt no interest in the translation. Probably the
banker was imposing upon her credulity, but she did not care if he was.

"Are the papers ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" she asked, timidly, fearful
that he had altered his mind in regard to the money.

"They are."

"I am ready to sign the deed."

The banker p