ce him, in the hope of hearing why he had come to her father.

On her entrance, Mr. Barnby bowed with frigid politeness.

"You have seen my father, Mr. Barnby. Is he well?" she asked, eagerly.

"He looked far from well. I was shocked at the change in him."

"Did he send for you?"

"Yes, and it will be some satisfaction to you to know that he has
withdrawn his charge against his grandson. When I came before, he
asserted most emphatically that the checks had been altered without his
knowledge. He now declares angrily that I utterly mistook him, that he
said nothing of the kind. He is prepared to swear that the checks are not
forgeries at all."

"Ah! he has come to his senses, at last. I knew he would," she cried.
"So, you see, Mr. Barnby, that you were utterly in the wrong."

"You forget, madam. You yourself admitted that the checks were altered
without your knowledge."

"Did I? No--no; certainly not! You misunderstood me."

"Mr. Herresford and his family are fond of misunderstandings," said the
manager stiffly, with a flash of scorn. He shrewdly guessed who the real
forger was; but, in the face of the miser's declaration, he was
powerless.

"This means, Mr. Barnby, that now my son will not be arrested, that the
impudent affront put upon us by Mr. Ormsby will need an ample apology--a
public apology. The scandal caused by your blunders has been spread far
and wide."

"That is a matter for Mr. Ormsby. Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his
previous assertion, and has given me a written statement, which absolves
your son. I insisted upon it being written. It may have to be an
affidavit."

The sound of the arrival of another carriage broke upon Mrs. Swinton's
ear, and she listened in some surprise.

"Why are so many people arriving here at this hour?" she demanded,
curiously.

Mr. Barnby shrugged his shoulders, to signify that it was no affair of
his.

The front door was opened by Mr. Trimmer, who had hurriedly descended the
stairs. Mrs. Swinton emerged from the library at the same moment,
impatient to see her father. To her amazement, she beheld Dora Dundas
enter. The girl carried in her hand a piece of paper. Her face was pale,
her eyes were red with weeping, and her bearing generally was subdued.
The message in her hand was a crumpled half-sheet of note-paper, in the
miser's own handwriting, short and dramatic in its appeal:

"Come to me. I am dying."

"Trimmer, I must see my father at once," cried Mrs. S