ector, fingering the checks
idly. "Herresford doesn't repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad."

"He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your
son, Mr. Richard Swinton, and it's Mr. Herresford's opinion that the
alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for
the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son--"

"But the checks are signed by Herresford!" cried Swinton, hotly. "This is
some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to
the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It
nearly landed me in bankruptcy."

"But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration."

"Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?"

A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a
telegram.

A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The
bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his
hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers.
Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob
he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face.

"My son"--he explained.

"Nothing serious, I hope. Not--?"

"Yes--dead!"

There was a long pause, during which the rector stood breathing heavily,
with one hand upon his heart. Mr. Barnby folded the forged checks
mechanically, and stammered out:

"Under--the--er--circumstances, I think this interview had better be
postponed. Pray accept my condolences, sir. I am deeply, truly sorry."

"Gone!--killed!--and he didn't want to go."

With the tears streaming down his cheeks, the stricken man turned once
more to the telegram, and muttered the vital purport of its message:

"Died nobly rendering special service to his country. Captured and
shot as a spy having courageously volunteered to carry dispatches
through the enemy's lines."

CHAPTER XI

A HOUSE OF SORROW

Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained
in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and
re-read it until the words lost their meaning.

"Gone--gone--poor Dick gone!" he murmured, "and just as we were beginning
to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor
boy--my poor boy!"

A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched
his fists and cursed the war.

Light, rippling music brok