if I had accomplices!'

Necessity is the mother of the arts. Under a spur so immediate, Morris

surprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery, and

within three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr Moss.

'That is very satisfactory,' observed that gentleman, rising. 'I was to

tell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.'

The room swam round Morris. 'What--what's that?' he cried, grasping the

table. He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill tongue

and ashen face. 'What do you mean--it will not be presented? Why am I to

take care? What is all this mummery?'

'I have no idea, Mr Finsbury,' replied the smiling Hebrew. 'It was a

message I was to deliver. The expressions were put into my mouth.'

'What is your client's name?' asked Morris.

'That is a secret for the moment,' answered Mr Moss. Morris bent toward

him. 'It's not the bank?' he asked hoarsely.

'I have no authority to say more, Mr Finsbury,' returned Mr Moss. 'I

will wish you a good morning, if you please.'

Wish me a good morning!' thought Morris; and the next moment, seizing

The Wrong Box