“I’m sorry for this,” said the sergeant soberly. “That’s why you haven’t come to the Fens.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what’s the boy going to do?”
“Oh, oh! that’s what bothers me;” and Virtue Ann’s tears began to shower down like rain. “It’s an awful hard case. There he sits day after day in those little stuffy rooms, waiting for a letter from France; and if what he wants doesn’t come something just too dreadful for anything will happen.”
“Too dreadful!” repeated the sergeant. “Come now, young woman, take it easy, and just stop crying, will you? There’s lots of charitable people in this city, and orphans’ homes and so on. He’ll be all right.”
“Do you suppose he’d go into an orphans’ home?” said Virtue Ann, drying her eyes and speaking half indignantly. “You don’t know him, sir. He’s proud and shy, like a little old man. His grandfather made him just like himself. Oh! he’s got a lot to answer for. He was a queer old man, and went peering about with those little eyes of his, just as if he was looking out for wickedness in everything.”
“Has the boy relatives in France?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes; one rich grand-uncle on his mother’s side. It was to him Master Eugene wrote; and how do you think he began his letter, sir? He had no one else by him; so he read it to me, and put it into English so I could understand. It began this way, ‘Robber, my grandfather is now dead; and I call upon you to restore to me, his rightful heir, the chatto’—is that the right word, sir?”
“I guess so,” said the sergeant.
“Well, anyway,” continued Virtue Ann, “Master Eugene laid down the law to him. He wants him to give up this big house, and the servants and some money, and if he does not that little innocent creature will—oh, dear, dear!” and she fell to catching her breath again, and could not speak.