Arthur Prescott was one day surprised at the receipt of the following letter from Frank Maynard:—
“My dear old Prescott,
“I am not a good letter writer, and when things are not going on well I don’t write at all. Things are not going on well, and I have not written. You and Katie and everyone else have been right and I have been wrong, and Fred Bingham is a damned scoundrel; but that’s no news, and I am not writing about that now. I am writing about a very extraordinary discovery which has been made here. This afternoon I was clearing out my desk, and tore up a lot of old letters and things. Evan, who is a first-rate lad and as true as steel, cleared up the letters, and, seeing a seal unbroken, looked at it. It was the seal of the last letter I had from Captain Bradshaw—his crest, you know, the three-fingered hand. Well, Evan asserts that the mother of the cripple lad had a seal round her neck with a three-fingered hand. If so, it is possible—nay, probable that this lad is Captain Bradshaw’s grandson. Whether he knows of it or not I cannot say. In spite of his inexplicable conduct to me I cannot believe it. This is quite in your line, old man, and I leave you to act as you think best. I think my uncle ought to be told in case he should be ignorant of it.
“Yours very affectionately,
“Frank Maynard.”
Prescott read the letter through twice, and then, putting on his hat, went straight down to Mrs. Holl. He was greatly shocked at the striking change which had taken place in the appearance of the cripple lad; but after the first greeting said,—
“James, I want to talk to your mother; would you mind going into the next room for a few minutes?”
James wheeled his box into his room, and Mrs. Holl closed the door.
“How dreadfully ill he looks, Mrs. Holl.”
“Ay, sir, and he is ill; he frets and mopes here, and I fear nothing but change, which the doctor says he ought to have, can save him. Poor lad, I fear me he won’t be here long.”