"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted. It is a trick to
make the world laugh at _us_, along with the rest, and--Give them to
_me_, since you can't do it!" He snatched them and tried to hold his
grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier,
and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he came near
to fainting.
"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as gold!"
"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"
"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of that be, Mary?"
"Edward, do you think--"
"Look here--look at this! Fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four. Thirty-
eight thousand five hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dollars,
and Harkness--apparently--has paid about par for it."
"And does it all come to us, do you think--instead of the ten thousand?"
"Why, it looks like it. And the cheques are made to 'Bearer,' too."
"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"
"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkness
doesn't want the matter known. What is that--a note?"
"Yes. It was with the cheques."
It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but there was no signature.
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