Nevitt held
him fixed with his penetrating gaze. Guy moved uneasily. He felt
as if he had a stiff neck, so hard was it to turn. Nevitt took a
pen, and dipped it quick in the ink.
"Just as an experiment," he said firmly, yet in a coaxing voice,
"sit down and sign. Let me see what it looks like. There. Write it
just here. Write 'Cyril Waring.'"
Guy sat down as in a maze, and took the pen from his hand like an
obedient schoolboy. For a second the pen trembled in his vacillating
fingers; then he wrote on the cheque, in a free and flowing hand,
where the signature ought to be, his brother's name. He wrote it
without stopping.
"Capital! Capital!" Nevitt cried in delight, looking over his
shoulder. "It's a splendid facsimile! Now date and amount if you
please. Six thousand pounds. It's your own natural hand after all.
Ah, capital, capital!"
As he spoke, Guy framed the fatal words like one dreaming or
entranced, on the slip of paper before him. "Pay Self or Bearer
Six Thousand Pounds (L6,000), Cyril Waring."
Nevitt looked at it critically. "That'll do all right," he said,
with his eye still fixed in between whiles on Guy's bloodless face.
"Now the only one thing you have still left to do is, to take it
to the bank and get it cashed instanter.
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