The weather as cold and blustery, but the sun shone through the chapel’s stained-glass windows and warmed the pews and altar. Upon the latter sat an urn decorated in gold and silver leaf. Adamat entered the chapel, careful not to let the door slam behind him, and turned to find the chapel empty except for one lone figure sitting on the foremost pew with head bowed. He felt his heart fall. Had no one come? He made his way up the rows and up to the front, where he sat down next to Ricard Tumblar. They sat in silence for several moments. Was Ricard praying? Adamat wondered. That was uncharacteristic of him. Finally, Ricard raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, but face lined with grief, the front of his suit rumpled. He cleared his throat, looked over his shoulder at the empty chapel, and cleared it again. Adamat slipped him a thin leather case. “Your cheque book,” he said. “Aleksandre admitted to having a forger duplicate your signature.
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