“Yes, he will pay my passage out to Melbourne to make enquiries about some property which he believes has been left to me.”
“Then don’t go,” cried Chris, impulsively. “You have had no reason for trusting him before; why should you trust him now?”
Dick hesitated.
“It does seem rather a slender chance of fortune, doesn’t it?” he said at last. “But it’s the only one I have. Remember, I not only have to live, but I want to keep a wife too.” She bent her head, but he heard a little sigh which had no sorrow in it. “Now I can just keep myself by my sketches; I can do nothing else, and I shouldn’t like to see you in anything but pretty frocks.”
“I believe,” said Chris, solemnly, jumping to a conclusion, “that Mr. Bradfield has got some money belonging to you, for they say that your father was a rich man.”
Dick looked thoughtful, but not hopeful. Little opportunity as he had had of knowing the world, he guessed that it would require superhuman energy to set the law in motion to make a rich man disgorge for the benefit of a poor one. For he was too ignorant to know that he could attack Capital in the person of Mr. Bradfield, by invoking the great god Labour. It did not occur to him, therefore, that a smart solicitor could have made a fortune both for himself and his client by bringing an action against John Bradfield, the rich man who had oppressed the poor one.
“I couldn’t prove it, even if it were true. And I know nothing of the kind,” said he.
Then Chris had another inspiration.
“You ought to consult a lawyer,” said she promptly.