“They are fraudulent, and not worth the paper they are written on,” he at once decided. “And I have actually given that scoundrel three hundred and fifty dollars for them. Why didn’t I take the precaution to examine them before handing over the money?”
He examined them again. They might be fraudulent, for the handwriting was not his, but they were word for word similar to the genuine letters which he had written many years since to Warren Lane. The question arose, Who had copied them? Was it Standish? He dismissed this supposition as very improbable, and adopted the theory that the genuine letters were not in existence—that Warren Lane had given these to his son as a record of what had passed between himself and Wentworth.
“In that case,” he reflected with satisfaction, “the boy has no hold upon me. I have only to deny all knowledge of the letters and stigmatize them as part of a conspiracy to extort money from me on false charges. It is worth three hundred and fifty dollars to find this out.”
So Wentworth’s anger was succeeded by a feeling of satisfaction.
“It is better to pay three hundred and fifty dollars than a thousand,” he reflected, “and that was the sum I was ready to give Gerald. On the whole my meeting with this fellow Standish was a fortunate one. I shall destroy these letters, and with them will perish the only evidence of my crime.”
When Mr. Wentworth reached home he found among his letters the following written in a regular schoolboy hand:
“Dear Sir:
“Your son Victor and I are in hard luck. We are staying at a poor boarding-house in Kansas City, and have only enough money to pay this week’s board. I have sent to my guardian for a remittance, and expect it within a few days, but Victor’s money gave out some time since. As I know you are a rich man I do not feel called upon to pay his expenses. I shall have only enough left for myself.
“Will you telegraph money at once to Victor, No. 125 H. Street, and I will advise him to take the money and go home.
“Yours respectfully,