I edged away to the window and left them to settle the signature question among themselves.

“And what kind of cheques would you like—­’Order’ or ’Bearer’?” I next heard the Manager asking.

“Show me some patterns, please,” commanded Suzanne.

On the wall was a frame containing a number of different cheque varieties, to which her attention was directed.

“Haven’t you any other colours?” she asked.  “I thought a black-and-yellow cheque would be rather becoming; but don’t bother about it if it’s not in stock.”

She ended by taking one book of blue and one of purple cheques, and with these and a paying-in-book (which she said would do so nicely for spills) we at last departed.  From behind the closed door of the private office I distinctly heard a prolonged sigh of relief.

A few days later I came upon Suzanne sitting at her writing-table and examining a cheque with a mystified air.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t quite know,” she replied.  “I sent Angela this cheque the other day to pay for my ticket for the Law-Courts’ Revel, and she says the Bank people have returned it to her.  And it’s marked ‘R.D.’ in red ink.  Who is ’R.D.’?”

“He’s the gentleman who censors cheques; and he has a way of disqualifying them when there’s not enough cash to pay them.  Suzanne, what have you done with all that money I paid into your account last Monday?”

“But I’ve only paid those footling little bills.  There must be tons of money left, unless the Bank’s been speculating with it.”

“Let me have a look at that cheque,” I said.

She handed it to me and I examined it carefully.

“I see it’s signed ‘Thine, Suzanne.’”

“But that’s how I always sign myself to Angela,” she said; “and the Manager distinctly told me to use my customary signature.”

“Signature—­not signatures,” I explained gently.  “They’re rooted in convention at the Bank and can’t bear the least approach to variety.  And what’s this scribbled on the back of it?”

“Oh, that’s only a note I dashed off to Angela telling her what I was going to wear.  It seemed such a pity to waste a sheet of notepaper when there was all that space to spare.”

I gave her a quarter-of-an-hour’s lesson in the art of drawing cheques.  Then I took up the paying-in book which was lying on the table.  I knew it ought to be in a virgin state as I had added nothing to the entrance money.  “And what might all these figures portend?” I asked.

“Those?  Oh, that’s baby’s weight-chart.  I’m always going to keep it there.”

Well, well, if Suzanne looks after the weighing-in I can at least control the paying-in.  And I left it at that.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Brown. “WHAT DID THEY GIVE OLD SLOWCOMBE THE O.B.E.  FOR?”

Jones. “THE ‘OTHER BEGGARS’ ENERGY,’ I IMAGINE.”]