“Yes, Mr. Bingham; I have heard that, and it is a bad job for both of us—worse for me though than for you. It will do you no harm in the long run; he won’t live the year out.” “It was sharp practice of yours, Barton, coming to me when you found he was not likely to live to come of age. A deucedly clever stroke though. But I don’t think he’s as bad as you think. My uncle told me he has picked up a great deal in the few days since he came there.” “I tell you he won’t see out the year, sir. I heard him cough every three minutes the last time I was with him; if he ain’t in a consumption I never heard anyone. Naturally enough the excitement has brightened him up for a while; but, take my word, he is not good for a year.” Fred Bingham felt his hopes revive. “Well, you may be right,” he said. “By the way,” he added, indifferently, “as he has turned up, you may as well return me that agreement of mine; of course it is useless now.” “Well, Mr. Bingham, I have been thinking that little matter over, and I think, on the whole, I should prefer to keep it,” the detective said, with a cold smile. “I do not see that it can be of any use to you now, Barton. It expressly states the money is only to be paid in the event of no nearer heir making his appearance, and now this boy has turned up it is of course worthless.” “Well, as a legal document it is not of much value, I allow. But it’s as a sort of keepsake I should wish to preserve it, for a while at least. It’s all I’ve got, you see, after twenty years waiting.” “Come, Barton, it’s no use our beating about the bush—what will you take to give it up?” “Well, you see, Mr. Bingham, it is not worth much to me, but it’s worth all Captain Bradshaw’s estates to you. I only have to put that paper into your uncle’s hand, and explain the little circumstance connected with it, for you to lose every penny.”