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. Begging to be excused for a moment, he

passed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an

appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior,

an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.

'Mr Morris Finsbury, I believe,' said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris

with a pair of double eye-glasses.

That is my name,' said Morris, quavering. 'Is there anything wrong.

Well, the fact is, Mr Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at

receiving this,' said the other, flicking at the cheque. 'There are no

effects.'

'No effects?' cried Morris. 'Why, I know myself there must be

eight-and-twenty hundred pounds, if there's a penny.'

Two seven six four, I think,' replied the gentlemanly man; 'but it was

drawn yesterday.'

'Drawn!' cried Morris.

'By your uncle himself, sir,' continued the other. 'Not only that, but

The Wrong Box