all the will in the world, he seemed to lack the art of signing with

his uncle's. Under these circumstances, Morris could do nothing to

procrastinate the crash; and, when it came, when prying eyes began to be

applied to every joint of his behaviour, two questions could not fail to

be addressed, sooner or later, to a speechless and perspiring insolvent.

Where is Mr Joseph Finsbury? and how about your visit to the bank?

Questions, how easy to put!--ye gods, how impossible to answer! The man

to whom they should be addressed went certainly to gaol, and--eh! what

was this?--possibly to the gallows. Morris was trying to shave when this

idea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here (in Michael's words)

was the total disappearance of a valuable uncle; here was a time of

inexplicable conduct on the part of a nephew who had been in bad

blood with the old man any time these seven years; what a chance for a

judicial blunder! 'But no,' thought Morris, 'they cannot, they dare not,

make it murder. Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man,

I don't see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don't

seem somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man,

and wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.'

With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury

descended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven.

There was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last!

'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly, and

tore it open.

215

The Wrong Box