CHAPTER II.
Mr. Paine was not in. Mr. Moreland was in his office. I went up the stairs, trembling, fearful of being abused for stupidity in taking the least notice of such a letter.
Mr. Moreland looked up when the clerk announced my name—looked up, bowed and positively rose from his seat. I took the letter from my pocket.
"I received this this morning, but, believing it to be a jest played upon me, I have not mentioned it. I have called to ask you if you know anything of it."
He took the letter from me with a strange smile.
"I wrote it myself last evening," he said, and I looked at him bewildered.
Good heaven! it was all true. To this moment I do not know how I bore the shock. I remember falling into a chair, Mr. Moreland standing over me with a glass of something in his hand, which he forced me to drink.
"Your fortune has a strange effect upon you," he said, kindly.
"I cannot believe it!" I cried, clasping his hand. "I cannot realize it! I have been working so hard—so hard for one single sovereign—and now, you say, I am rich!"
"Now, most certainly," he replied, "you are Sir Edgar Trevelyan, master of Crown Anstey and a rent roll of ten thousand a year."