His brow knitted as he did so, and the lines grew deeper and more scornful as he turned to the beginning and read through.
“If I were you,” said he, returning it, “I would frame this letter as a good specimen of a barefaced fraud.”
It irritated Roger considerably, in his present over-wrought frame of mind—and particularly after the memorable inward struggle of that morning—to have what seemed so serious a matter to him regarded by any one else as a jest. For once in a way the tutor failed to understand his ward.
“It does not seem to be a fraud at all,” said Roger. “Why didn’t you tell me of it before?”
“I did not regard the statement seriously. Nor do I now. There is lie written in every line of the letter. A clumsy attempt to extort money, which ought not to be allowed to succeed. He gives not a single proof of his identity. I horsewhipped him on the night of your birthday for insulting a lady, and—”
“What lady?” asked Roger.
“Miss Oliphant,” said the tutor, flushing a little. “He then, as a desperate expedient for getting off the punishment he deserved, blurted out this preposterous story. And having once published it, it appears he means to make capital out of it. Roger, old fellow, you are no fool.”
“I am fool enough to believe there is something in the story,” said Roger; “at any rate I must follow it up. If this Ratman is my brother—”
The tutor, who himself was showing signs of irritation, laughed abruptly.
“It may be a joke to you, but it is none to me,” said Roger angrily. “It may not concern you—”