“I think that your uncle’s story is a mere fabrication. He has contrived a snare in which you have allowed yourself to be enmeshed.”
“I am only a boy, sir. I supposed there was nothing for me to do but to yield possession of the estate when my uncle showed me the letter.”
“It was natural enough; and your uncle doubtless reckoned upon your inexperience and ignorance of the law.”
“What would you advise me to do, sir?”
“Let me think.”
The merchant leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to reflection. In the midst of his reverie the pompous servant entered, bringing a letter upon a silver salver.
“A letter, sar,” he said.
“That will do. You can go, Augustus.”
“Yes, sar.”
Mr. Newman glanced at the postmark, tore open the letter, read it with a frown, and then, as if he had suddenly formed a resolution, he said: