Unfortunate boy! the temptation had been too strong for him.  Under what sudden, insane impulse he had acted—­under what delusion of being able to repay in time; or of Mr. Ascott’s not detecting the fraud; or if discovered, of its being discovered after the marriage, when to prosecute his wife’s nephew would be a disgrace to himself, could never be known.  But there unmistakable was the altered check, which had been presented and paid, the banker of course not having the slightest suspicion of any thing amiss.

“Well, isn’t this a nice return for all my kindness?  So cleverly done, too.  But for the merest chance I might not have found it out for three months.  Oh, he’s a precious young rascal, this nephew of yours.  His father was only a fool, but he—­ Do you know that this is a matter of forgery—­forgery, ma’am,” added Mr. Ascott, waxing hot in his indignation.

Hilary uttered a bitter groan.

Yes, it was quite true.  Their Ascott, their own boy, was no longer merely idle, extravagant, thoughtless—­faults bad enough, but capable of being mended as he grew older:  he had done that which to the end of his days he could never blot out.  He was a swindler and a forger.

She clasped her hands tightly together, as one struggling with sharp physical pain, trying to read the expression of Mr. Ascott’s face.  At last she put her question into words.

“What do you mean to do?  Shall you prosecute him?”

Mr. Ascott crossed his legs, and settled his neckcloth with a self-satisfied air.  He evidently rather enjoyed the importance of his position.  To be dictator, almost of life and death, to this unfortunate family was worth certainly fifty pounds.

“Well, I haven’t exactly determined.  The money, you see, is of no moment to me, and I couldn’t get it back any how.  He’ll never be worth a half-penny, that rascal.  I might prosecute, and nobody would blame me; indeed, if I were to decline marrying your sister, and cut the whole set of you, I don’t see,” and he drew himself up, “that any thing could be said against me.  But—­”

Perhaps, hard man as he was, he was touched by the agony of suspense in Hilary’s face, for he added.

“Come, come, I won’t disgrace your family; I won’t do any thing to harm the fellow.”

“Thank you!” said Hilary, in a mechanical, unnatural voice.

“As for my money, he’s welcome to it, and much good may it do him.  ‘Set a beggar on horseback, and he’ll ride to the devil,’ and in double quick time too.  I won’t hinder him.  I wash my hands of the young scape-grace.  But he’d better not come near me again.”

“No,” acquiesced Hilary, absently.

“In fact,” said Mr. Ascott, with a twinkle of his sharp eye, “I have already taken measures to frighten him away, so that he may make himself scarce, and give neither you nor me any farther trouble.  I drove up to your door with a policeman, asked to see Mr. Leaf, and when I heard that he was out—­a lie, of course I left word I’d be back in half an hour.  Depend upon it,” and he winked confidentially, “he will smell a rat, and make a moonlight flitting of it, and we shall never hear of him any more.”