The doctor was poor; everything had been going against him of late, and he needed money badly. The battle between his will and his conscience was sharp but decisive--his will had won. Lest he should change his mind, the doctor had shipped the satchel containing John Dinsmore’s important papers to Challoner, at New Orleans, in accordance with his request, and eagerly awaited results, for he had misgivings as to how it would turn out. Armed with the needed credentials, the fraudulent Dinsmore proceeded at once to present himself to the New Orleans lawyer who had the settlement of the Dinsmore estate in charge. It was no easy ordeal to pass muster with the astute old man of law, but Challoner accomplished it. The important documents he brought with him for that gentleman’s inspection proved satisfactory upon examination, leaving no room for doubt--there being a letter among them from the deceased George Dinsmore, written fully twenty-five years before to his nephew--for the postmarked envelope bore that date--stating if he grew up to be a good boy he should one day inherit Blackheath Hall, to which he was invited on a visit. The old lawyer did not fancy the young heir particularly--there was something about him that seemed to grate harshly upon him. “If I mistake not, I saw him betting at the races when I went there to find an important witness yesterday,” he ruminated, “and if that is the kind of life he leads, poor George Dinsmore’s wealth will flow like water through those white, slim, idle hands of his. “There is but one formula necessary now to be gone through with ere the fortune can be made over to you, Mr. Dinsmore,” remarked the old lawyer, with a grim smile, “and that is to wed the--Miss Jess,” he said, hurriedly, changing the words that had been almost on his lips. “If I do not like the young girl, I shall not marry her--not for all the fortunes that were ever made!” cried the false Dinsmore, dramatically, and the lawyer liked him the better for that dash of spirit. “The estate is a fine one, young man, and it would be a pity for you not to inherit it, as you are next of kin to the deceased Mr. Dinsmore. It was a great mistake, in my opinion, to tie it up as he did.” Armed with the lawyer’s letters of introduction, it was an easy matter for the daring, fraudulent heir to gain an entrance to Blackheath Hall. Mrs. Bryson, the old housekeeper, looked with unfeigned astonishment at the handsome young man who soon afterward presented himself at the hall as Mr. John Dinsmore. “I--I beg your pardon for staring at you so hard,” she said, apologetically, as she bade him enter; “you are changed so much from the boy that it is hard to look at you and believe you to be one and the same. Your eyes were quite blue as a boy, I remember; now they are positively black--and you look so very young. The years have rested lightly on you, sir; I should scarcely take you for two-and-twenty, let alone thirty, which you must surely be.”