Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street traced his uncle's signature.

It was a poor thing at the best.

'But it must do,' said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork.

'He's dead, anyway.' And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.
There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business, and with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller.

The teller seemed to view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even scrutinized the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared to warm into disfavour.