“Just so,” Mr. Barton assented. “I have drawn up a bond on stamped paper up to £15,000, the figures are not put in. I will fill it up. ‘I owe Robert Barton the sum of £12,000, which I agree to pay upon the death of Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square, providing that no nearer heir than myself to his property be found.’” “But supposing,” Fred Bingham said, “that my uncle quarrels with me and leaves his property to some one else?” “I don’t think you are likely to let him quarrel with you, Mr. Bingham; but should he do so, I rely upon you for your own sake to come here and tell me so frankly, and I will then restore you this paper, and produce the grandson.” Fred thought for a minute, and then said, “Yes, that would suit us both. There, I have signed the bond. Don’t leave it about. Good morning, Mr. Barton.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER II RUINED. Frank Maynard and his wife had finished breakfast. Frank was reading the “Times,” and Kate had just brought down baby to play with. Frank suddenly gave a sharp exclamation as of sudden pain. “What is it, Frank? What is the matter?” Frank did not answer, his face had a look of utter dismay. “Send baby away.” His wife rang the bell, and baby was sent up to the nursery. “What is it, Frank dear? Something very bad? Tell me, dearest.” “Katie,” Frank said, “if this is true, and there can be no doubt of it, we are ruined,—ruined, little woman.” “How, Frank?” his wife asked, unable to realise the misfortune, “how ruined, dear?” “The great Indian Bank is broken, Katie—a complete smash.” “But, Frank, that is not altogether ruin; I have heard you say half your money was in the shares of that Bank, and the other half in the Bank of England, so only half is gone.” “No, Katie; the Bank has failed, the notice says, for an immense amount. Not one-third of the amount of the shares is called in; they will call up the rest now, and every farthing we have in the world will go, Katie. Oh, my poor little wife, my poor little wife!” “My dearest, I have you left, so I am rich still. Do not give way, Frank, my own boy, you must not do that; we shall do very well somehow. Don’t give way, Frank.” “My darling, I am only thinking of you. My little tender wife! To think how different your life will be.” “My dear Frank, I am not a hothouse flower—I am a little wild Irish girl; do you think I can’t rough it as well as you? Why, Frank, I have been wondering lately whether I was always to lead such an idle, useless life as I have lately, with only baby to work for. I am sure I shall be happier, Frank, and you know, dear, I can be useful, and perhaps earn money. I am sure I could give singing lessons.”