"Can he be going to leave anything to that boy?" he asked himself.
He would have liked to have asked his uncle, but only contrived to hint a question, to which the old man replied evasively. In reality, he had appended a codicil to his will, bequeathing the sum of ten thousand dollars "to the young circus rider, generally known as Robert Rudd," and did not like to mention it to Hugo lest the latter should remonstrate with him, and the old man felt too weak to argue.
"There will be enough left for Hugo," he said to himself. "Ten thousand dollars is but a small part of my property."
"It is very lucky," thought Hugo, "that I made arrangements with Fitzgerald to dispose of the boy, in case my uncle has done anything foolish in his will. It will save litigation and trouble."
He looked at the old man—frail, feeble, apparently on the verge of the grave—and reflected with impatience that as he looked now he had looked for five years past. His hold on life was tenacious.
"Good heavens! He may live for five or ten years yet!" thought Hugo. "He looks as if a breath would blow him away; yet he encumbers the earth year after year, holding one in a detestable slavery to his whims and caprices. I shall be an old man myself, or almost one, before Chestnutwood falls into my possession; but when it does"—and his eye flashed with hopeful anticipation, and he walked with a prouder gait—"when it does I will live!"
One day Hugo was just getting ready for a solitary walk when the servant announced, "A gentleman to see you, sir."
"A gentleman? What name?" asked Hugo.
"He said his name was Fitzgerald, sir."