There was the paper before me, wet with the ink. There was the pen
which THE HAND had used. Does anybody doubt me? I HAVE THAT PEN NOW. A
cedar-stick of a not uncommon sort, and holding one of Gillott's
pens. It is in my inkstand now, I tell you. Anybody may see it. The
handwriting on the check, for such the document was, was the writing
of a female. It ran thus:--"London, midnight, March 31, 1862. Pay
the bearer one thousand and fitty pounds. Rachel Sidonia. To Messrs.
Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London."
"Noblest and best of women!" said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with
much reverence. "My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question
THAT signature?"
Indeed, the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of
the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to
be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment. There was
only one little difficulty, THE COUNTESS RACHEL DIED LAST OCTOBER.
I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with
a sneer.
"C'est a brendre ou a laisser," he said with some heat. "You literary
men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis. Your
box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know
you want money to pay dat rascal Tom's college bills.
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