“‘I advise you to go to Chicago or some other Western city and obtain employment. Then you can send for your family and wait patiently till the tide turns and you become a moderately rich man.
“‘Bradley Wentworth.’”
“This letter comforted me. I went to Chicago and succeeded in securing a position yielding me the same income as the one I had given up. I sent for my wife, but did not venture to explain to her fully my reasons for leaving Seneca. I feared that she would say something that might injure Bradley Wentworth, so loyal was she to me.”
“Did Mr. Wentworth send you the five hundred dollars he promised you annually?” asked Gerald.
“Yes; he would not have dared to omit doing so, for I had his written confession, and this, if made known to his uncle, would have lost him the estate. He wrote me, however, in a complaining tone, asking me to let him reduce the sum to three hundred dollars, but this I positively refused to do. I felt that my sacrifice was worth at least all that I had stipulated to receive.
“Five years passed, and old Mr. Wentworth died at the age of seventy-six. As was expected, the whole of his large estate-three hundred and twenty thousand dollars-was left to his nephew.
“I waited anxiously for Bradley to redeem his promise. Three or four weeks passed, and I heard nothing. I sat down, therefore, and wrote to him, demanding that he should carry out his agreement.
“Here is the letter I received in reply.”
The sick man drew from his pocket a much worn document and handed it to Gerald, who read it with indignation.
“Mr. Warren Lane.