Mrs. Rand protested against Chester sending her eight dollars a week, but he insisted upon it, advising her to lay aside what she did not need.
One evening about this time Edward Granger, who still occupied the small apartment adjoining, came into Chester’s room, looking agitated.
“What is the matter?” asked Chester. “Have you had bad news?”
“Yes; I have had a letter from Mr. Wilson, of Portland, whom you recollect we met about a year ago.”
“I remember him.”
“I will read you his letter. You will see that I have reason to feel anxious.”
The letter ran as follows:
“Dear Edward: I promised to send you any news I might pick up about your mother and her promising husband. Trimble is indulging in liquor more than ever, and I don’t see how he can stand it unless he has a cast iron constitution. From what I hear he has never given up trying to get your mother’s property into his hands. She has held out pretty firm, but she may yield yet. I hear that he is circulating reports that you are dead. In that case he thinks she may be induced to make a will leaving her property to Mr. Trimble; having, as I believe, no near relatives, so that he would seem to be the natural heir.
“I may be doing Trimble an injustice, but I think if such a will were made she wouldn’t live long. Your stepfather is in great straits for money, it seems, and he might be tempted to do something desperate. As far as I can hear, Abner Trimble’s plan is this: He took a pal of his around to the house who had been in New York recently, and the latter gave a circumstantial account of your dying with typhoid fever. Evidently your mother believed it, for she seemed quite broken down and has aged considerably since the news. No doubt her husband will seize this opportunity to induce her to make a will in his favor. Here lies the danger; and I think I ought to warn you of it, for your presence here is needed to defeat your stepfather’s wicked plans. Come out at once, if you can.
“Your friend,