In a moment of temporary embarrassment he had been tempted to forge the name of Colonel Dumont to this check, for five hundred dollars, to liquidate a debt of honor, not doubting that he should be able to obtain it again before the day of settlement at the bank, by means of a dissolute teller, a boon companion at the gaming-table.  But Colonel Dumont, in arranging his affairs for their final settlement, had sent Jaspar for a statement of his bank account at an unusual time.  Jaspar, who, in the illness of his brother, had managed all his business, immediately discovered the forgery.  Without disputing its genuineness, he ascertained who had presented it, and traced the deed to the attorney, and thus obtained a hold upon him which was peculiarly favorable to the execution of his great purpose.

“You see I have not laid myself open to your fire without fortifying my position,” said Jaspar, enjoying, with hearty relish, the discomfiture of the lawyer.  “Now, no more of honor to me.  I have kept your secret for my own interest, and now you will keep mine from the same motive.”

“But I dare not do this thing,” replied Maxwell, keenly sensitive to the weakness of his position; “I lack the ability.”

“You have signed the colonel’s name once very well; perhaps you can do it again,” sneered Jaspar, who had no mercy for an unwilling servant.

“It will not be for your interest or mine that I should do it,” returned Maxwell, determined, if possible, to avoid committing himself.

“Why not?” said Jaspar.

“My frequent visits to Bellevue would subject me to suspicion.  I am known.  Another would not be suspected.  If I clear myself, I shall clear you at the same time.  I can procure a person who will accomplish all in safety.”

“Think you I will trust another man with the possession of the secret?”

“I shall compromise my own safety by writing the will, as you propose.”

“True,—­who is this person?”

“His name is—­” and Maxwell hesitated; then a severe fit of coughing apparently prevented his uttering the name—­“his name is Antoine De Guy.”

“Do I know him?”

“You do, I think,—­a kind of street lawyer,—­you must have met him at the Exchange.”

“What looking man is he?”

“About fifty years of age,” replied Maxwell, more thoughtful than the simple description of a person would seem to require,—­“rather corpulent, black hair and whiskers, intermixed with gray,—­dresses old-fashioned, and always looks rusty.”

“I do not remember him,—­De Guy—­De Guy,” said Jaspar, musing; “no, I do not know him.  Are you confident he can be trusted?”

“Perfectly confident.  I pledge my own safety on his fidelity,” replied Maxwell, not a little satisfied at gaining his point,—­for he had a point, and a strong one, as the reader may yet have occasion to know.

“Very good,—­I will inquire about him.”