“Come,” Mr. Barton said, “I have waited twenty years. I will take £12,000, not a farthing less.”
“Very well,” Fred Bingham said; “payable of course at my uncle’s death, in the event of no nearer heir than myself appearing.”
“Just so,” Mr. Barton assented. “I have drawn up a bond on stamped paper up to £15,000, the figures are not put in. I will fill it up. ‘I owe Robert Barton the sum of £12,000, which I agree to pay upon the death of Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square, providing that no nearer heir than myself to his property be found.’”
“But supposing,” Fred Bingham said, “that my uncle quarrels with me and leaves his property to some one else?”
“I don’t think you are likely to let him quarrel with you, Mr. Bingham; but should he do so, I rely upon you for your own sake to come here and tell me so frankly, and I will then restore you this paper, and produce the grandson.”
Fred thought for a minute, and then said, “Yes, that would suit us both. There, I have signed the bond. Don’t leave it about. Good morning, Mr. Barton.”
CHAPTER II
RUINED.
Frank Maynard and his wife had finished breakfast. Frank was reading the “Times,” and Kate had just brought down baby to play with. Frank suddenly gave a sharp exclamation as of sudden pain.
“What is it, Frank? What is the matter?”