"The expenses won't be much. I shall say to Choate, 'Choate,' says I, 'here's a piece of property which belongs to my mother. You can go up to the Registry of Probate, and read the will yourself. Give my mother legal possession of it, and I will pay you five or ten thousand dollars'—I haven't just decided exactly what to offer him. He takes the case, brings the suit, and gets the property for you."
"Suppose he doesn't get it?"
"Then he will get nothing. When I was in the law business, cases were sometimes taken in this way."
Mrs. Wittleworth was encouraged by this hopeful statement, and disposed to let Fitz have his own way. Abject poverty was so terrible that she could not afford to lose such a chance. Mr. Checkynshaw's conduct in leaving his child in France, among strangers, for ten years, was singular enough to beget suspicion.
The conversation was continued till the fire went out, and the chill air of the room drove the intended litigants to their chambers. Fitz did not come down till breakfast time the next morning. He lay in his warm bed, building castles in the air, and thinking what a great man he should be when the block of stores and its revenues were reclaimed from the grasp of Mr. Checkynshaw. He thought it quite possible that he could then go into a barber's shop and be shaved without any one having the impudence to laugh at him.
Mrs. Wittleworth had thought a great deal about the property, but she could not quite make up her mind to take such decided steps as those indicated by her son. If the attempt was made, and proved to be a failure, Mr. Checkynshaw would never forgive her, and might injure her in revenge. When she came down stairs, she had decided to call upon the banker, and state the case to him. If he chose to satisfy her that Marguerite was still living, it would save trouble and future disappointment.
"You can see him if you like, mother. I have no doubt he will smooth you over. Checkynshaw is a plausible man—Checkynshaw is. He carries too many guns for a woman. I would call myself if it were not for letting myself down to his level," said Mr. Wittleworth, stroking his chin, when his mother was ready to go.
"Don't be so silly, Fitz!"
"Checkynshaw won't stand trial, in my opinion. He is shrewd—he is."
"I only intend to ask him what he means to do," added Mrs. Wittleworth.