Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his mother if she ever had twins.
"What on earth do you mean, my dear?" she asked, laughing at him.
"It is plain enough," he answered incautiously. "I dream sometimes of a brother the exact counterpart of myself."
"You work too hard," said his mother, pityingly. "You must take a holiday, my darling."
"Who's to pay for it?" he asked gloomily.
"I am," she said fondly. "I have saved fifty pounds for you."
"Give it to me," he said eagerly, and with the money he went to Paris for a fortnight and squandered it on himself and his pleasures.
The foolish mother was continually doing this kind of thing, saving up money, wheedling her husband out of it upon false pretexts, stinting herself and making sacrifices for the worthless, ungrateful idol of her loving heart. So time passed, and Chaytor was still in the office of Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, picking up no sound knowledge of the law, but extracting from it for future use all the sharp and cunning subtleties of which some vile men make bad use. To the firm came a letter from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, with the tenor of which Chaytor made himself familiar. He was a spy in the office, and never scrupled at opening letters and reading them on the sly to master their contents. In the letter which Basil's uncle wrote occurred these words:
"Send me in a registered packet, by first post, my will, the will I made in favour of my nephew, Mr. Basil Whittingham. He has acted like a fool, and I am going to destroy it and disinherit him. At some future time I will give you instructions to draw up another, making different dispositions of my property. I am not a young man, but I shall live a good many years yet, and there is plenty of time before me. Meanwhile bear witness by this letter that I have disinherited my nephew Basil Whittingham."
Of course they followed his instructions, and the will was forwarded to him.