“My name? O’ course it’s my name. My father was billiard-marker at Casey’s Hotel, Dandaloo,” said the old man with conscious pride. “A swell he had been, but the boose done him up, like many a better man. He used to write to people over in England for money, but they never giv him any.”
“Where did he write to?” asked Carew, looking at the uncouth figure with intense interest. “Do you know what people he wrote to?”
“Yairs. He wrote to William Considine. That was his father’s name. His father never sent any money, though. Told him to go to hell, I reckon.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“William Patrick Considine.”
Carew dashed out to his saddle, hurriedly unstrapped a valise, and brought in a small packet of papers.
“Here you are,” he said, opening one, and showing it to Gordon. “Those are the names, Patrick Henry Considine, son of William Patrick Considine. Entitled under his grandfather’s will—by Jove, do you know there’s a lot of money waiting for you in England?”
“There’s what?”
“A lot of money left you. In England. Any amount of it. If you are the right man, you’re rich, don’t you know. Quite a wealthy man.”
“How much money d’you say, Mister?”