“Of course this affair, my dear Fred, will to some extent make a difference in your prospects. I say, frankly, that it was my intention previously to have left all my property to you. Alice is amply provided for, and I had no one else whom I should have cared to enrich; but you need not be afraid, my dear boy, you will have a very handsome slice yet.” Frank murmured a few words of deprecatory thanks, and then took his leave. Very fast he walked down Lowndes Square, swinging his cane violently, and at times cutting at the air with it. As he turned into the roar of Knightsbridge his speed slackened, and he began, as was his wont, to speak to himself through his closed lips. “So that is the heir. I can understand now why Barton came to me. He did not think he would live till he came to be of age. He may not. No one can say. He may live for years—these sort of people always do. If he outlives the old man, as is likely enough, I shall at most get a third. I suppose he will leave the boy the estates and me his money, and, perhaps, some of the farms. Of course I must make myself pleasant to this imp, in case he should outlive the old one. But I don’t think he will,” he added, more cheerfully; “Barton evidently did not give him a year—and he mayn’t even last that. Still this will shake my credit with the Jews. I shall have difficulty in getting them to wait. Of course my agreement is at an end with Barton. I agreed to pay him at my uncle’s death, in the event of no nearer heir appearing. Yes, he will be sold anyhow. If the boy dies it will, after all, be a lucky thing he has turned up. Besides, even after paying Barton, he might have been an annoyance in some sort of way. Yes, it may be for the best after all. How Barton must have sworn when he heard it. I wish I had been there to watch his face. The laugh would have been upon my side, I fancy. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me who the heir was—an old fox. By Jove!” and here he stopped in his walk in consternation, “he has got that paper of mine. He was safe enough to keep it dark before, for it was worth twelve thousand pounds to him; now it’s worth nothing, and if he chooses to show it to the old man I am ruined. By Gad! I am completely under his thumb;” and for once, in his despair at this new danger, Fred Bingham lost his jaunty, elastic walk, and crawled along Piccadilly with the step of an old man. Presently he hailed a cab, and when he reached home astonished the servant by taking a candle and going straight up to his bedroom, without a single unpleasant remark. The next morning he went down to Mr. Barton’s office. That worthy had by one of his emissaries learnt that Fred Bingham had returned to town the day before, and had gone up in the evening to Captain Bradshaw’s. Fred Bingham was paler than usual, but he was cool and collected, and thoroughly prepared for the encounter. He began the conversation. “Of course you have heard that the boy has turned up?”