these two broke the long, still parallels, or blotted the white road between.
“You admit it?” cried Blaydes, stopping in his walk. “Then why on earth come to me?”
“You know why! You settled with a cheque not worth the paper it was written on. Your name was unknown at the bank! It was a cheque for thirty-five pounds, and I want the money.”
“Have you got that cheque?”
“It is in my pocket.”
“I should like to see it.”
“No doubt you would!”
“You distrust me,” observed Blaydes, calmly. “I see now that you have some reason to do so. At least you won’t mind telling me whether it was drawn on Stuckey’s Bank?”
“It was.”
“Exactly!” cried the Captain. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff now. My dear young fellow, I apologise from the very bottom of my heart, for it has been my mistake after all. What do you think I did? Wrote out my cheque in Dick Vale’s cheque-book—you recollect Dick Vale? He banks at Stuckey’s. That’s it, of course; and no wonder you thought me a thundering rogue! Now I’ll be frank with you, Erichsen. Of course I knew you well enough; but I wasn’t over-anxious to renew acquaintance with the man who had written threatening letters to my club. Especially as I couldn’t understand ’em! But I do now, and ’pon my soul I’m sorry; here’s my hand!”
“I prefer your money.”
“What! you dare to doubt my word?”
“Until I see your money—most certainly.”
